What Will You Do to Me, John?
by George Plutarch
Summary: JOHNLOCK, EXPLICIT. rated MA for a reason! smut ensues after Sherlock returns from his 3 year absence. much to John's surprise and glee, Sherlock found his sexuality while he was gone, and wants the good doctor to punish him. they save a girl from Mycroft along the way, and she helps them around the flat and thru their relationship. tragedy!
1. Finally there

**a/n: okay...i've sunk to the occasion. you people are dirty, and i love it. this is my first johnlock, so be gentle (or not) but i've written sappy/filthy supernatural destiel fics in the past, so it shouldn't be such a new ride, right? i hope you like it, and i want reviews so please, i'm begging, leave your marks ;)**

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_**chapter 1**_

It had begun, like all other baffling cases, as a trip through Sherlock's roller coaster of a mind. John followed the younger man at an unwitting pace through the maze of alleyways, walking at a brisk pace, thankfully enough. They were on the way to see the last person who had seen the victim of their latest case alive, an old drug dealer Sherlock had known who worked the Oxford Circus area.

In the cab on the way from the Yard, John has sat in silence, watching Sherlock text away on his phone, refusing to give the slightest clue as to what they were doing. When they stopped at the flat, Sherlock had told him to stay put, saying that he just needed to grab something. John stayed in resolute silence until Sherlock had graced his presence once again.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?" he asked, finally giving in to what his mind had been racing toward since daybreak, when they got the first message from Lestrade.

"I know the person that she bought this from," he muttered, holding up a tiny clear baggie that still held a few grains of white powder within. John's eyes narrowed.

"Did you steal that from the crime scene?"

"Yes." Weary sigh.

"Is that cocaine?"

"Oh, yes, she OD'd," he continued to stare at his phone. After a solid minute of silence Sherlock finally looked up, meeting John's eyes for the first time all day. It felt like the first acknowledgement he had gotten in that same span of time. "What?"

"Are we going to meet one of your old dealers?" John felt nauseous. Should he alert Mycroft? Was this counting as a danger night? Surely, so wrapped up in a case, Sherlock wouldn't dare to buy drugs, especially not right under John's nose?

"He was, yes. But no, John, I am not going to _buy_ anything," it sounded like a derogatory growl. How did he manage to be aloof and condescending at the same time? Frustrating.

_God, I'd love to gag him some days_. Wait…what?

Just as John started to shake his head at the errant thought, the cabbie stopped at Oxford Circus, letting them out. John scoffed at Sherlock's purposeful forgetfulness, and paid the man, sending him off onto his next ride. Sherlock was already halfway down an alley by the time John turned back around.

"Keep up, John. He stays back here a ways," the smaller man kept close as suggested, dodging in between homeless persons and Sherlock's own oversized steps as he struggled to see in the blackness. There were no streetlights where they were going.

After one particularly tricky turn of corners, John all but slammed into Sherlock's back, as he had stopped suddenly.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock give a man some warning!"

"Hullo, Dalton," Sherlock drawled, putting on the dark chocolate voice that the sociopath knew worked so well on manipulating people. John stayed alert, knowing full well that it usually meant trouble.

"Sherlock! Fancy seeing you on your _feet_ in a darkened alley. This your boyfriend?" The man came forward. He was dark skinned, not English, but rather American, it sounded like. Sherlock stiffened beside him.

"My associate, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock stepped slightly to the side, allowing John to see the man in front of them. A cell phone light was the only luminescence on any of their faces. The man looked positively dangerous, eyes glinting back at the young detective. "I need to know, what was the last thing you sold to _this,_" Sherlock produced a photo from his cloak, "woman?" Dalton's eyes narrowed on the picture, barely focused.

"Ah, sweet little tart she was. Sold her a gram of coke, nothing else." Dalton's eyes ghosted over John again before settling in a haughty manner on Sherlock once again. "Why, you want some of your old brew again?"

"Decidedly not. I've been clean for some time now. You said you sold her nothing else?"

"That's right. Nothing. She only wanted that." Dalton relaxed, leaning against the brick wall beside him, crossing his legs so that his right shoe was balanced on the tiptoe.

"Thank you," Sherlock brusquely left, swirling his coat about his shins as they wove through the alleys and out onto the main road.

"What as that on about? What did he mean by on your…oh," John fell silent, blushing slightly. "Did you really—"

"Let's not dwell on past mistakes, shall we? Dalton sold our victim her last bit of cocaine, now we have to see if she got pure or mixed…and if it was mixed, then with what? He said he had my old brew on hand…" Sherlock muttered the last bit to himself, but John still caught it. They crawled into the back seat of a cab just then, headed for St Bart's to run blood work on the vic.

"What exactly did "your old brew" consist of, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, trying to sound light, not invasive. Sherlock snorted, fighting off a small smile.

"Seven percent pure liquid cocaine and a solid hit of black tar heroin, rolled into one shot, washed down with a draught of laudanum, ." The detective shivered, as if remembering the high. He was. Sherlock tapped his fingers absently against his knee, waiting for the cab to stop in the courtyard of the hospital so he could work over the corpse.

"Jesus. You're lucky to be alive," it's all John would come up with, and it was ignored either way. Sherlock found it best to _not_ think of his previous addiction, especially when the dealer he was accustomed to using was now under his nose again as the lead suspect in a case.

"Let's not, John." John nodded once, biting his tongue on more questions. Sherlock leapt out of the cab, tossing the cabbie a fifty pound note without looking.

"Keep the change," John muttered to the man, following his flat mate into the darkened hospital.

They took the elevator to the proper floor, stepping out and invading Molly's morgue as she was sliding the dead woman into a cooler. "Oh, hi boys," she started, jumping when Sherlock tossed his coat over a stool. He approached her as carelessly as ever, sliding the body back out of the refrigerator and sticking a needle in her cold flesh. Once he had a full vial, he went soundlessly back into the lab, running three tests at once and sparing a drop for the microscope. John sat back and watched him work, talking mindlessly to poor Molly, who seemed to be awfully tired and none too pleased to see Sherlock in her lab at one in the morning. But, gentle as ever she let him crack on, being polite and quiet.

"Ah," Sherlock finally said, a solid hour later. John jerked himself off of the widow where he had fallen asleep, and Molly put her paperwork away, paying close attention. "He did give her a batch of my old solution. Why on earth would he sell her liquid? And if he did, then where did the baggie of powder come from? Ooh, maybe he sold her powder and she liquefied it to shoot up? That would be strange…." He prattled on, fingers laced in front of his lips as the young man paced the length of the lab.

Molly turned to John, "Sorry, what old batch?"

"It's the drug, or rather _combination_ of drugs Sherlock preferred when he was a junkie." _Was?_ reverberated in his mind. John blinked hard, pushing the thought away. Of course Sherlock wasn't shooting up anymore. He'd know…right?

"For the last time, John, I am _clean_!" Sherlock startled him out of his reverie, practically snarling at the older man as he stomped out of the lab and down to the bay of lifts. It was always disturbing when John got to fancying Sherlock a mind reader. That was the last thing he needed, now more than ever.

"Er, bye Molly," John huffed, grabbing his own coat and rushing after Sherlock.

"Now where?" he asked, half afraid of the answer if it wasn't _home, bed_.

"Home, you need to go to bed," Sherlock grunted, biting his lower lip. He stood straight as a rod and still as ever, but there was something the matter with his face. John waited until the lift doors opened to ask.

"Is there something the matter, Sherlock?" he waited, half expecting the unpredictable arse to ignore him entirely.

"Embarrassment doesn't suit me well, John. Humiliation is more my style. Don't pretend that you didn't hear what Dalton said in the alley." The taller man grimaced and got into the cab, refusing to look at John at all as they made their way home.

Silence pervaded in the flat as Sherlock galloped up the stairs, slamming the door to his room. John sighed and went about making a cup, rooting in the cupboards for stray bags of PG Tips. He needed to make a Tesco run. The good doctor set the kettle on to boil, eyes getting lost in the blue rim of LED lights, losing track of time. The minute that the old Hobbs took to boil was like an hour to him, thinking about Sherlock's face as the drug dealer from the alley gave away one more small slip into the life Sherlock used to lead. It was becoming less of a mystery, and John felt that he was caught in between wanting to know infinitely more, and nothing more at all.

So Sherlock used to suck some cock for a hit in dingy alleys. That was his prerogative, and he had clearly gotten over that part of his life, despite the utter embarrassment—his term—that he was feeling at the moment. John most certainly was _not_ imagining how that wonderfully shaped Cupid's bow would look stretched around the silky skin of a cock. He shook his head and poured the hot water over the pyramid bag, blinking back into reality. John turned—

And nearly dropped the kettle on his foot. His flat mate, the wonderfully _idiotic_ genius was standing not two feet away from John, in his blue silk dressing gown and skin-tight, solid black pants. That was it; pale, unblemished flesh against the stark black that made his mouth water. John made his eyes flash back to the detective's face despite the shock of seeing so much skin and set the kettle down on the countertop gently.

"Care…um…for some tea, Sherlock?" he stammered, turning back to fetch another tea cup from the cupboard.

"Tell me, _Doctor_, why have you been thinking of nothing but me on my knees since the scene in the alley?" Sherlock had yet to move an inch. John could barely tell that the young man was even breathing. The tiny stretch of pale flesh over his ribs was the only indicator. _God, how was he so sodding calm?_ Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his back, waiting. "Please, do tell me when you've decided to stop having this internal crisis. Then maybe we can have some fun, if you'll agree to stop being so _thick_ about your attraction to me." On the word _thick_, Sherlock's eyes darted to the tightness of John's trousers, smirking slightly.

"I…I, um," John's mouth had gone suddenly dry, his tea forgotten on the counter as Sherlock strode forward, so slowly that John almost felt like it could be categorized as a _glide_. Those pale, sea-glass eyes were fixed on his face, though, and they were unnerving as hell.

"Is it perhaps because you want to see the image for yourself?" Okay. Sherlock's voice had decidedly gone _way_ too low. John felt it under his skin as the younger man came so close that their chests were practically brushing, before he dropped to his knees. No preamble, no slowing himself before his bony joints hit the hardwood. The resounding thunk had John paranoid that Mrs. Hudson would come looking in. He just dropped, raising his head slightly to look out from under his lashes at John. "What do you think, John?" _Jesus, _his lips barely even moved, holding position. How could someone look so innocent and in control at the same time.

"Are you coming on to me, Sherlock?"

"Yes." He licked his lips.

Well then.

"I think you should go back to your bedroom and think on it some more," John muttered, his rebuttal halfhearted. Truth was, he'd thought of little else in the past few months since Sherlock had returned to him, completely unscathed for once. After the first few stages of anger and bitter hatred, John listlessly had fallen back into the swing of their old life together. It wasn't really so different, except the newfound desire to make _sure_ that Sherlock never left again, no matter what.

"I had three years to think, John. I need action now. But I will return to my room, if you make me." He didn't budge, though. As if he were waiting for a command. John couldn't look at him, not even in his general direction without feeling a dull throb in his trousers. He knew he was in trouble.

Sherlock lowered his chin a centimeter more, flashing his gaze back up from where John's cock was straining against his zipper to John's face again, a smug look playing on his features.

Something in him snapped; the dam broke. All it took was the split second for his resolve to falter, and he was yanking Sherlock up off the floor by his curls, pinning him against the counter with his own hips. He felt the catch of breath more than he heard it, the detective going suddenly very still against him.

"What are you going to do to me, John?" Sherlock whispered, their lips nearly touching. His voice had become almost a drawl, like he was bored!

"I'm going to take the smugness out of your tone, then I'll teach you how to act," John muttered back, pulling Sherlock closer still by the front of his dressing gown. The younger man closed the distance, pressing their lips together and opening his immediately for John's exploration.

"Oh, yes, _do_, doctor. Teach me a lesson, smack me around. Make me be quiet, the _hard_ way if necessary. Which it will be," Sherlock broke the kiss, fixing John with a stare so smouldering that his breath caught, enraptured. Fire raged under his skin, and a certain air of stubbornness washed over Sherlock, driving him mad. John felt it in his body language as the younger man took a step back, sauntering to his bedroom at a leisurely pace. When John failed to follow immediately, he heard:

"John, you'd better hurry or I'll start without you," followed by a creak of bedsprings. Decided, the good doctor stomped after the detective, closing the door hard behind him. No need for snoopy landladies to come looking in, like ever.

"Get off the bed. On your knees, there, just like you _insisted,_ you little tart." John was surprised at how immediate the response was, as Sherlock slid from the bed onto his knees (surely they were bruised from his theatrics earlier?) on the plush carpet in one smooth motion. Like he'd been doing it his whole life. John's erection pressed against his trousers again, insistent.

"Get over here and get what you asked for," he sighed. No sense in making it _too_ easy for Sherlock, he decided. Make him work for it.

He complied, lip curling on one side derisively as he bloody _crawled_ to John's feet and sat back on his heels, the perfect height for this. Long violinist fingers slipped beneath the waistband of John's trousers, unsnapping and pulling down the zip effortlessly.

John gasped as they were pooled immediately around his ankles, pants as well, the sensation of Sherlock's hot breath ghosting over his strained cock almost too much to bear. Once again the younger man looked up through those lashes, waiting for a command.

"Open up," John growled, running his fingers into the tight curls around his flat mate's temples, guiding. He licked his lips, making that uniquely curved upper lip shine in the low light of the early morning and opened his jaw as far as it would go, sinking down on John's length with one smooth motion.

_Oh, bloody hell,_ his mind screamed, fingers tangling in Sherlock's soft curls. The man in question balanced his hands on John's thighs, just over his knees. His own erection was fighting under the thin layer of cotton for air, half distracting him, half urging him on. He shifted on his knees, letting John rut against his face, scooting them back in position until he was pressing the back of Sherlock's head into the side of the mattress.

John pulled back, letting Sherlock surface for air, the younger man gasping and wiping at the trail of drool on his chin. He fumbled to his knees, crawling over the mattress and laying on his back, head hanging over the side, facing John.

"Fuck my face, John!" he growled, gripping the shorter man's hips ferociously and pulling him back close. The good doctor didn't need telling twice, taking the necessary step forward to plant his feet on the side of Sherlock's bed.

"Oh, sweet Jesus your mouth, Sherlock," he grunted, quickly losing control as his thrusts faltered. The taller man knew exactly how to roll his tongue over the head, tease the glans, and hollow his narrow cheeks in perfect time to drive John crazy! Even upside-down it was perfection.

"Give it to me," the younger man keened, swallowing John whole again just in time to feel the telltale pulse against his tongue, tasting his come as it shot down his throat. Digging his nails into John's buttocks, he licked the shorter man clean, his own cock twitching in response, demanding attention.

Rather than bask in the glow, John all but threw Sherlock upright onto the bed, crawling up after him and throwing his thighs apart.

"What do you want?" he asked, reaching down to pull his pants down and throw the offensive clothing on the floor.

"God, anything, John." The gasp was almost funny, coming from such a generally steadfast and calm person, but John couldn't care less as he ran the pads of his fingers over Sherlock's pale thighs, drinking in the sight of the younger man falling apart beneath him.

"I'm not as practiced, clearly, but I'll give it a go," he muttered, sinking onto his belly between Sherlock's legs and propping himself up by throwing an elbow over each thigh, effectively pinning Sherlock to the mattress.

"John this is one instance where enthusiasm trumps talent, any day." John let his fingers whisper over Sherlock's hip bones, tickling him slightly as he lowered his head, lapping experimentally over the long, pale cock jutting out before him. The leaner man squirmed, holding his breath. John sighed and took the head in his mouth, sinking down as far as he could go. When his turgid length hit the back of the smaller man's throat he swallowed, squeezing the head in his throat muscles, and wrenching a choked gasp out of Sherlock.

"After tonight, I'm going to find much more interesting things to do to you Sherlock, much more interesting," John muttered between deep-throating his flat mate, making the man writhe, almost bucking John off of his position on Sherlock's thighs.

"God…like what, John?" his air was coming in short gasps now, chest heaving, long hands fisted in the bedclothes. "Gah…close! P—_please_, John, just a little, ah—hh!" he trembled, stomach clenching as John swallowed around him once more, teasing his balls gently. Sherlock came hard, shuddering as stray jolts of come filled the good doctor's mouth. He swallowed it all, finishing with a flourish of tongue up the underside of the thinner man's waning prick.

Sherlock had a hand fisted in his own hair, his breath slowing back to normal as the hand slid down to scrub over his face. John crawled up over Sherlock's body, sprawling in kind on the mattress next to him, not bothering to find his pants just yet.

"So, what did you have in mind, then?" the younger man asked, cocking his head to the side to throw a glance at John.

"Oh, I don't know. Better let it be a surprise, yeah?"

"I suppose." Silence filled the space as Sherlock twisted, facing John on his side, and promptly fell asleep.

"Cheeky bastard," John muttered, looking down at his stomach where a long pale hand was laying, effectively keeping him there. At least that's what he told himself so he would give in and stay there curled into the larger man's body. He sighed, ticking off a list in his head of the supplies he would need, and where to get each thing.

Yes…the next week was going to be interesting indeed.


	2. Hit me, make me squirm

** A/N: you people have been scrumptious so far :) i love all of you! work is about to start again, so probably not daily postings after today, but i'll try to keep them regular once my school/work schedule balances out! fingers crossed****

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**CHAPTER 2**

In the following week, Sherlock remained just as uptight and annoying as ever, pushing John's buttons at every turn. But God help him, every time he got angry, John remembered the sight of Sherlock dropping to his knees and his words froze in his throat. He couldn't stay mad at him for anything!

John busied himself in his bedroom, building the swing that had taken over his consciousness since his last scene with Sherlock. He was going to surprise him with it tonight, after their customary Wednesday dinner at Angelo's.

"Ready?" he heard Sherlock call, probably shrugging into his coat at the foot of John's stairwell.

"Coming," he called back, digging his jumper out of the pile of screws and wrappers from his purchase. Oh, yes. This was going to be a glorious night. All he had to do was focus on how big of a pain in the ass Sherlock had been lately. Not a problem.

Sherlock led them out of the flat, saying a perfunctory good-evening through her door at Mrs. Hudson before slamming the door to the foyer. He was in a mood, having no cases this week and having been practically ignored by John since their newfound and very mutual bond. John smirked as he hailed a cab, certain that he would wipe that boorish look off the younger man's face soon enough.

"What is that look for?" Sherlock asked, throwing himself across the backseat of the cab as John gave the man the address.

"You'll find out later, if you behave. Oh, and you'd better eat tonight," he added, just to make Sherlock twitch. Sherlock wouldn't ask why, but he _would_ try to figure it out himself, and it would drive him mad. He'd be positively jittery all through dinner and John found himself wanting that very much.

_Oh, yes, misbehave. Let me take it out on you later._ It was very difficult to keep his face straight.

John picked quietly and deliberately at his dinner, refusing to look directly at Sherlock. He knew that the younger man wanted attention, and by denying him so early in the game, he was winning. It was almost too easy. He bit his lip to hide a smile as Sherlock grumbled into his plate of ravioli, flipping the pockets of noodle over time and time again in the sauce, making a general mess of his plate.

"Sherlock," John warned, getting slow response from the young man across the table. When those impossible eyes finally flitted to his, he continued. "What did I say in the cab?" Sherlock rolled his eyes impressively, muttering under his breath and scooping up a ravioli; popping it into his mouth.

After three more ravioli disappeared, Sherlock sat back in the booth, staring out the window with narrowed eyes. He was thinking, hard too. John smiled to himself and laid down five quid, knowing that his money would be refused for the food, but tips were still in good order, right? He got up and snatched his coat, walking out the door without a backward glance at the detective in the corner.

John stuck his arm out, hailing a cab before Sherlock caught up to him with a huff.

"Come on," the doctor sighed, pushing the taller man into the back of the cab insistently. "When we get home," he whispered, trying not to let the cabbie hear what he was about to say, "You are to go sit in your room until I come get you, understood?"

The detective's eyes narrowed into slits. "And if I don't?"

"Then nothing will happen, and we can be boring all night," John replied matter-of-factly, shifting his weight away from Sherlock to peer out the dingy window. He heard a clacking of teeth as Sherlock pulled a face and turned his own face more to the window to hide a smirk.

When the cab pulled to 221B, John left first, leaving Sherlock with the tab, which he knew the man hated, and went inside, shutting the door behind him, just to piss off the younger man a bit more. It made him laugh; he couldn't remember the last time he'd been deliberately rude, and the best part that it was just amping them both up inside.

As Sherlock entered the apartment, he smelled first and foremost Mrs. Hudson's scones baking in her kitchen to his left. His eyes followed John's shadow as it disappeared up the stairs, and he was eager to follow. But part of him, a very big part, wanted to deliberately disobey and see what happened. He decided to follow that side. If they were boring tonight, it would be his fault. He could deal with that; but he very much refused to believe that John would actually refuse him anything. In fact, he knew he _couldn't_.

"Good Evening, Mrs. Hudson," he crooned, entering her kitchen and taking the offered seat at her small table.

"Hey, there Sherlock, darling. How are you two getting on?" she fussed, bringing him a still-piping hot berry scone and a pushing the little bowl of clotted cream in his direction. He took it happily, pulling the pastry in half and pausing.

"Oh, just as well as ever, I suppose. He's up there sulking now, apparently I've been hard to deal with this week."

"When are you not, dearie?" she sighed, patting his hand and moving to turn the oven off. He nodded, still stewing over what John could possibly be getting ready upstairs. All he could come up with was a set of varying, and thrilling, set of visuals on exactly how he'd like John to tie him up and beat him.

Sherlock coughed quietly, shaking the thought out of his head for later use. Just in case they were boring tonight.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," he sighed, getting up and leaving, taking the other half of the scone with him for John. He ignored her response, bounding up the stairs to their flat. Instead of going to his room as he was bid, he sprawled across his chair, kicking off his shoes and picking up his violin. Sherlock was just picking over the notes of the Devil's Laughter when he heard John thumping down his stairwell. Blithely, he turned his face the other way, tensed for a row.

"Well, then, I see that you're feeling contrary tonight." John said, swinging his arms back and forth like he did when he was getting irritated. Sherlock looked over at him, surprised to see the doctor in just his trousers. His heart jolted at the surprise, but he masked it quickly. John came and stood before him, in between his knees. "Get up," he said, a low tone of demand in his voice. The detective sat there, simply looking up at him through his lashes.

He did not expect what came next.

The soldier came out in John, whose hand shot out, grabbing Sherlock by his hair and pulling him forward so that he landed hard on his knees, violin falling to the cushion of the chair as an afterthought. A gasp bubbled out of the younger man, shocked at the sudden use of force. _Christ, _he loved it! All his blood rushed south in that instant.

"On your feet," John snapped, releasing dark curls from his fist as he took a step back, letting Sherlock stand on wobbly knees. "Now, what were you _supposed_ to be doing, Sherlock?" he asked, sounding more frustratingly amused than his face let on. The detective kept his eyes on John's chest, breath coming in sharp bouts.

"I was supposed to be in my room," he mumbled, shifting on his feet awkwardly. John snorted.

"Well, I told you not to disobey or there'd be consequences. Just not the ones I told you about." Sherlock froze. Wait…what? "We're not going to be boring, but I hope you're ready for some solid, _hard, painful _torment for your actions, darling." The younger man licked his lips rapidly, blinking as he looked down into hardened blue eyes. John held out a hand, waiting for Sherlock to take it. When he did, a whisk of cold metal was the only warning he had before a set of police-issue handcuffs snapped around his right wrist. John didn't ask for the other, but rather held onto the opposite cuff and dragged Sherlock up to his room, the younger struggling the whole way.

Really, he was putting on a bit of a show, he liked to feel the mild panic that came with a good bit of struggling, and apparently John liked to be the aggressor. _Good. _

By the time the two got up the stairs, John was out of air, and Sherlock had dampened his efforts to make it easier on the older man. Sherlock was certain that his shins would never be the same, as John had all but dragged him up the ten steps, banging his legs off the hardwood stairs the whole way as he struggled and screamed.

The doctor, for one, was grateful that he had both warned Mrs. Hudson _and_ locked the flat's door so that there would be no interruptions. He shoved Sherlock bodily into the bedroom, breathing hard. _No sense in giving in now,_ he convinced himself.

"Again, John, _what_ are you going to do to me?" Sherlock breathed, standing a bit straighter, arm still stuck out toward John, who still held the other end of the handcuffs. "Are these Lestrade's?" his eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, found 'em in your closet. You nicked them?" Sherlock laughed and nodded, waiting for the next attack. Instead, he got a mouthful of doctor, lips feverishly fighting against his own; fighting for dominance between the two men. John was on tiptoe, grasping at the lapels of Sherlock's sport coat, pulling at the offensive material to get the younger man naked; his sole concern.

Sherlock helped, to his credit. He shucked the jacket and his trousers quickly, standing before John in all his pale glory with naught on but black pants and his purple silk button-down. It just so happened that he knew it was John's favorite shirt of his, so he left it on, at least for now.

"Get down here," John commanded, voice as husky as could be. Sherlock shivered, ducking his head slightly to stoop to John's level a bit better. The doctor produced a strip of black cloth, tying it quickly around the younger man's eyes, snug enough that he had to keep his eyes shut under it. No peeking. Sherlock licked his lips nervously, floating in the ether as John extracted his touch from the detective, taking a step back,

A moment later, the unattached end of the handcuffs were grabbed again, leading Sherlock indelicately to a corner of the room that had been cloaked in the blackness of the night. It was cold, making gooseflesh ripple across his pale skin as John backed him into the corner.

"This," John began, "Is our new toy, Sherlock. Can you tell what it is?" John released him entirely, letting the consulting detective pat down the object in front of his thighs. It felt like thick leather, roughly rectangular, about three feet by two. Each corner had a standard-sized chain, like the chain of a swing set, hooked to it, and Sherlock ran his hand up the chain to where it ended, presumably hooked into the ceiling. Coming off of the two closest chains to him were two more strips of leather, much smaller and looped.

"Is it a sex swing?" he asked, mouth going dry. He had to bend to lay his palm against the leather hammock, where his back would rest. Right at the height of John's hips. His own cock throbbed at the thought, ready for action.

"It is, very good. What do you think?" the shorter man was directly behind him now; Sherlock could feel his body heat radiating. His breath came fast. _ Dear God, did John know how to rattle him._

Instead of waiting for an answer, John turned him round by grasping at his hips, unbuttoning the younger man's shirt slowly, pressing kisses to unblemished flesh as it was exposed. He didn't remove the shirt, only left it hanging open as he backed Sherlock into the swing. Taken by the sudden switch from rough handling to gentle, Sherlock couldn't help but give in, hitching up his left leg to scoot backward onto the swing. John had his hands wrapped around Sherlock's ribs so that his thumbs rested tip to tip on the younger man's sternum, fingers wrapping out over the rib cage, under his nipples. The doctor slid his hands lower, mapping out Sherlock's mouth with his tongue as he grasped each of Sherlock's ankles, pushing thighs into his chest as he moved the younger man into position, long legs dangling on either side of the chains.

Once he had his long pale body stretched out on the leather, John kept Sherlock distracted with his mouth, tracing down the long throat with his teeth, nibbling, licking, and generally keeping the detective's quick mind off of the fact that he was latching the handcuffs around the other wrist, behind Sherlock's back, under the structure of the swing. He was now trapped, even if he could manage to get his legs out of their present position and bucked off of the swing he couldn't get farther than one pace before his arms would be caught, round the swing's backing and between the four chains hooked into the ceiling. John took the moment of shock to back away, walking to the other end of the room quickly, shedding his trousers.

"John! Where are you going?" he snarked, tugging uselessly against his bonds. John looked back at him then, and what a sight it was.

Sherlock's long, lean body was in a relaxed pose, his small, perfectly formed arse sitting just at the edge of the leather hammock, long legs dangling on either side of the two end chains, holding his thighs wide open, ankles in the stirrups, hands hanging uselessly under his body in Lestrade's police issue handcuffs. John had the key in his bedside table.

"Just dipping down to your room for a minute. I found your _box_ this weekend." He laughed when Sherlock's jaw dropped open, indignant. "You're not the only one who can snoop, Sherlock. Don't move," he teased, closing the door behind him. He heard the detective's resounding growl all the way downstairs, laughing to himself as he slid in his flat mate's bedroom door and into the closet, digging out the black wooden box with the padlock on it. The key was in his trousers, hooked on the keys to the flat. Hidden in plain sight, cheeky bastard.

John fumbled through the flat, searching for where they had left Sherlock's trousers until he remembered that they were in the middle of his bedroom. He rolled his eyes, stomping back up the stairs. When the door swung open, Sherlock was—of course—where he had left him, still looking as much of a sour puss as ever, being bound senseless and left to his lonesome.

John walked over and set down the box, letting Sherlock listen to him as he rooted for the keys, unlocking the box.

"Now, what do we have here?" he asked, motioning to the box of sex toys; dildos, cuffs, a ball gag, and a various assortment of lubricants filled in the space. John tapped his lips, still waiting for an answer from his charge. He cast a glance over to Sherlock, the man sitting resolutely still with his jaw clenched, refusing to answer. His cheeks were tinged pink high on those immaculate cheekbones.

"Are you going to answer? No?" no response. John plucked a random lubricant from the box, and the ball gag, walking back to Sherlock's bound form and reaching over his body to smack him across the face, hard. When he faced John again, flexing his jaw open and shut, John was had moved to stand behind him and shoved the ball in between his teeth, snapping the buckle closed one notch looser than it could go. A garbled groan preceded the younger man thrashing his legs about, unhappy with his current state of aroused and not being touched. His turgid cock lay up against his stomach, a bead of pre-come dripping down into his bellybutton.

When John walked back around in front of him, slicking up his fingers as he smirked at the blindfolded, angry as a bull man suspended before him. He reached forward, sliding his lubed-up hand over Sherlock's prick as he leaned down and lapped up the bead of clear fluid from the shallow dip, making Sherlock moan against the gag.

"Have you ever had anyone inside you, Sherlock? Or are these toys just for show?" A broken grunt came back at him, the detective shaking his head in very small motions. "So you just use them on yourself? You've only ever done oral sex?" John was a bit surprised at that, but assumed that Sherlock was telling the truth. The nod he received was partially ashamed, so he figured it was at least mostly true. "And how would you like to change that?" His voice was as calm as possible, like they were discussing buying a new tea tray. It was infuriating Sherlock to no end. He had to admit, this was a fun little game, one that John could readily keep up with.

The detective responded by wriggling down as much as he could in his bonds on the leather, trying to make his arse as accessible as possible for John.

"Well, you have been naughty for several days now, not counting the three years of hell you still owe me for." Flat voice, no touching. Sherlock's breath was a hard pant in the otherwise silent room as he waited, unseeing. Without warning, John began to circle Sherlock's hole with his index finger, not dipping in just yet, just teasing as he stayed perfectly silent, catching all the little whimpers from the young man in the hammock.

Sherlock writhed, positively begging for it as he bit hard into the rubber between his teeth. He tried to be still, but as John finally relented, sinking that blasted finger past the first ring of muscles, he bucked up slightly in an effort to get more. John responded by letting out a deep breath, fucking Sherlock with slow motions with that finger, curling it inside the younger man to seek out his prostate. After a few minutes, he sank in his second finger, twisting them to brush firmly over Sherlock's' prostate, making the man keen against his gag and thrash his legs a bit in their stirrups. John grinned, letting out a breathy laugh as he looked up, watching the detective's furrowed brow as he tried to push the ball gag out of his mouth with his tongue. John reached up, tugging the buckle off the gag and letting it fall to the dip in the swing by Sherlock's side.

"Oh, _God_ John, I…_ughhhh,"_ he groaned, pressing his head back into the leather, completely helpless to John's ministrations within him. A third finger slipped in, pressing against his prostate in a near-constant motion, making him fall apart. It wasn't long before he started begging outright, and John couldn't hold back any longer.

"Pl—please John, just fuck me already! I'll do whatever you want for the rest of the day. I'll—I'll even clean up the flat, _God _ just do it," he sobbed, writhing in truth now, wrists tugging against the metal biting into the skin at his wrists, stomach clenching under the pale sheath of skin stretched over his bony torso. John bit his lip, withdrawing his fingers, drawing a whimper out of the man before him. He bent down and slicked himself up. He was clean, and Sherlock had never…wait.

"Are you clean? You did used to shoot up…" he asked, feeling foolish. Sherlock clenched his teeth.

"I never shared needles, John, and I was tested by the rehab clinic when Mycroft had me put in. Nothing has happened since then. I'm clean." He waited, teeth set again. John relented, bending down once more as he slicked up his own cock to plant a sloppy kiss on the scarlet crown of Sherlock's straining erection. He sucked in a breath, thighs clenching as much as they could in their bonds.

John straightened, lining up his cock with the younger man's entrance. The latter stilled with bated breath as John pressed the blunt head against his hole, pressing in gently and as slowly as he could manage.

"Jesus," he hissed, trying to relax. John reached up and took off Sherlock's blindfold, relishing in seeing the constrained lust mingled with terror in his pale sea glass eyes.

"When I'm seated, bear down, it will fit better and hurt less," John muttered, wrapping one hand around Sherlock's narrow hip, the other around his prick, flagging from trepidation. He gave it a few tugs, sinking into the tight heat further with the distraction as Sherlock held his breath and refused to look directly at John.

Once he was seated fully, Sherlock obeyed John's order, bearing down with his internal muscles before relaxing fully in the swing. John was right, it released a lot of the tension. He took a deep breath, forcing his body to relax and give in to John's movements.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looming over the younger man's body to grip the chains up by his shoulders. Sherlock's face was hot and pink, a thin sheen of sweat covering his whole torso. He was trembling minutely.

"Fine, John. Just move, please," he whispered, biting his fuller bottom lip as John withdrew halfway, snapping his hips forward to drive back into Sherlock's tight body. It wrenched a gasp out of the bound man, his hands fisting in the cuffs under his body.

"Talk to me John," he gasped, eyes screwed shut in concentration. "Abuse."

"Right…um." John's mind whirred, thinking up how to talk dirty. He'd never really done it before. Sherlock waited, body taking the pounding of John's hips as he set up a smooth rhythm. "Like that, you little tart? You've been a right prat lately, need to be taught a lesson, don't you?"

"Oh, yes John, do what you must. Hit me, make me _squirm,_" he growled through his teeth, throwing his head back as John's hand slicked over his prick again, fisting it with lubricated fingers. Jesus, who knew that Sherlock would be a talker in the sack?

"Right, well, I haven't got anything legitimate enough to punish you properly on yet. You'll need to work on that, I suppose? I'm sure it won't take you long to piss me off more properly," John grunted in time with his thrusts, driving harder and harder into the tight, slick heat that was his bony roommate. The man in question let out a long groan that echoed against the walls, the note hovering in the air as John took it as a sign to continue his brutal pummeling. Sherlock's perfect body accepted the intrusion of his cock so well, and was very obviously enjoying himself as he climbed closer and closer to the edge of orgasm.

"John, I swear to you that if you give me what I want I will make _certain_ to tell you to sod off at every available opportunity from here forward!" he cried, John feeling the younger man's muscles clench hard around him as he attempted to fight off a rush of orgasm.

"Gah, John! _Please, John_!" he bellowed, clenching hard around the doctor, driving them both over the edge as thick ropes of come slicked between their stomachs. The older man managed to keep his lubricated hand on Sherlock's cock the whole time, milking every last drop out of the man before he blew his own load deep within.

He stood for a minute, catching his breath before withdrawing. When he finally did, Sherlock whimpered quietly at the suddenness of feeling so empty, his hole fluttering in the open air. "I hope you have the keys for these cuffs," he huffed, his own chest still heaving slightly. John smirked, leaning against the wall next to where his flat mate swayed on the swing, trying without much success to wriggle his ankle out of a stirrup.

"What if I said that I didn't and I'd have to call Lestrade down here to unlock you?" Sherlock froze in that instant, the leather stirrup around the arch of his foot rather than his ankle.

"You have them, because I had them in that box and I know you've rooted around in it before today. Also you wouldn't dare show me naked and bound in your room to anyone else, if not for your own embarrassment then for mine. Let me go, please John." He fixed the doctor with that pale stare, pouting his lips just so that John almost gave in. Almost.

"You still have three years of hell to repay me for. You'll go nowhere, yet," John smirked, tugging his pants back on and striding back with the key to Sherlock to unlock the metal cuffs, only to re-situate the ankle strap and move Sherlock's wrists one at a time to the soft, padded leather cuffs that were attached halfway up the shoulder-side chains of the rig. The young man complied with the movements, if only for the sake of morbid curiosity.

"Now what, John?"

The detective could do nothing in his new position but look warily back at the doctor's wicked grin and the toy he was holding in his hand. "Let's play _doctor,"_ he growled.

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**a/n: howdy! hope that was fun, it was excruciatingly long to write, but i think it wound up delicious. tell me (in reviews) what would you like to see? it is kink meme after all 0:) i'll try to make your fantasies come true on the pasty canvas that is Sherlock's tasty ass. hit me up!**


	3. Punishment and Reward

**CHAPTER 3:**

John was in the parlor, sitting in his favorite chair with a nice cuppa, reading the newspaper. He looked out the window, smiling at the bright sunshine and obvious haze of winter hanging over the city. The window had a nice layer of frost over it. He'd have to fire up the towel rack today, no doubt.

"_Nggghhh_…. God, John, get it out, _please!_" echoed through the flat. Sherlock was in his room today, being punished for nothing really, just being himself.

Basically, as they were walking back to the flat from dinner, Sara, John's "boss" (when he went into work) ran into them on the street. Sherlock had been sickeningly polite, but as they were leaving he mentioned that John had _clearly moved on, _bloody winking at the woman. He did it on purpose, just to make John angry, and worse thing was John _knew_ that Sherlock was enjoying himself in there being "punished." So, he left him to it, not willing to interrupt how much fun the younger man was so obviously having.

"JOHN!" he sobbed, the bed creaking as he thrashed his long legs around. The doctor sighed and cleared his throat.

"What, Sherlock?" John smiled, knowing that there was no one there to catch him do it. He turned the page of the paper. Something about taxes, blah blah blah. What else was new? Unless the brat called their safe word, _Groby*_, John wasn't going to relent.

"Please…Ugh _please_ come get this out of me, I'm b—buh—begging!" a keening whine cut the man short. "Come fuck me, instead!"

"No, I think you like it. It's only been twenty minutes, and I told you thirty. You can wait." John came back to the room anyway, leaning against the door post.

The detective was stretched out on his back, wrists cuffed to either end of the headboard so that his long arms were pulled taught. His legs were loose, not that it much mattered, Sherlock was thrashing like he was caught in a bramble bush, not dealing with an irritatingly low-set vibrator shoved up his arse. The toy in question was curved just so that it sat directly against the prostate, driving him crazy. He couldn't push it out, either, not that he was even remotely trying—if anything it seemed more like he was trying to drive it into the bed so he could sink down harder against it. It was shaped at the end like a plug, too wide to remove unless a hand was guiding it. John wasn't stupid, either, he'd left him on his back so that he couldn't gain any friction on that painfully hard prick of his. It was caught in a cock ring anyway. No release for Sherlock; not yet anyway.

"Are you sorry?"  
"No!" Sherlock cried, gasping for air as John reached down and pushed the intensity button to make it ratchet up one notch. He choked back a series of growls mixed with whimpers as John smiled, keeping his hand on the base of the toy.

"Eight more minutes," he muttered, leaning down to tease Sherlock by ghosting over a kiss. He didn't quite meet the other man's lips, delighting in making him look like he was going to scream.

"Why?" Sherlock growled, bucking off the bed as John reached down and turned the dial up higher. He was positively shaking on the mattress, clammy sweat covering his whole body in the freezing room as he fought off the need to come. John sighed, taking pity, and turned it back down to the lowest setting. The detective choked out a sob, relaxing back against the bed, muscles going slack.

"Young, socially ignorant cock whores are _not_ to speak about their relationships to others, particularly exes, big brothers, or anyone in the Yard, understood?" John barked, looming over Sherlock, hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock stilled, biting his lip hard before nodding, not looking directly at John. Submission. Good. He reached down and grasped the flared base of the toy, pulling it out gently. Sherlock's muscles clamped down, trying to hold it inside himself, but John was persistent. It popped out of the tight ring of muscles, leaving Sherlock empty for a short minute with a grunt.

"If it happens again I'll tie you up in here for a week, I won't be so nice about touching, either." The detective stayed immaculately still as John tugged off his clothing, going to the other side of the bed for the nightstand. He pulled out a condom and a sachet of lube. Sherlock hissed under his breath. John only used condoms when he was trying to humiliate or punish Sherlock. He hated them; they both hated them, actually, but Sherlock felt dirty when John used them. He bloody loved it in an embarrassing sort of way. John came round, removing the rubber from its package and putting it in Sherlock's restrained hand.

"Roll it on, slut," he said, loud and clear. The younger man blushed, feeling more than ever like he was back in the alleys of Oxford Circus, about to bruise his knees for a hit of cocaine. He had always had the presence of mind to make the dealers he blew use rubbers. Mycroft would have completely taken his trust fund away if he'd dared to actually catch an STD.

Sherlock rolled the condom on smoothly, giving John's balls a gentle tug as he did so, earning a slap. Right. He was being punished. Liberties are stripped in such cases. He set his jaw and waited, perfectly still.

Oh, _why bother?_ Getting smacked was just as much fun, if not more so.

The detective wriggled away slightly, making John grab his hips and pull him back to the center of the bed. Next he whined, thrusting into the air, begging for John to put his cock inside him. The doctor's eyes were blown wide with lust, fixated on his fingers buried deep in Sherlock's arse. He curled and scissored them, brushing either side of Sherlock's already slightly swollen and sensitized prostate. The younger man's breath hitched and he stilled, holding his breath as the doctor removed his fingers and lined himself up at Sherlock's entrance.

"You better be as vocal as possible, today. Mrs. Hudson isn't in. In fact, every thrust that you _don't _make a sound, that's a cropping for you. And boy, would I love to make your pale flesh ruddy," John growled in the younger man's ear as he sank in to the hilt. Sherlock shuddered, gasping for air after holding the breath.

"Does gasping count, sir?" he asked, breathily. John smirked.

"I suppose, if it's desperate enough." He withdrew about four centimeters and snapped his hips, wrenching a groan out of his charge as he hit home. "Ah," he sighed, sitting still for a moment to let Sherlock adjust around his girth. "God, you feel so warm today. Been begging for it, haven't you?" Sherlock just nodded, breath coming out in a hiss as John adjusted his angle, pulling out almost all the way and a slamming home three times rapidly.

On the third hit, Sherlock started screaming.

"God, John, PLEASE take off the ring, _please!_" he cried, bucking in time to the doctor's thrusts to drive him in deeper. "God, just touch it! Anything, I'll do anything," he whimpered, his cock throbbing with trapped blood and at least one staved-off orgasm building within. He was about to burst, embarrassingly quickly.

"Let me get a bit closer, don't need you getting all limp and tender and useless on me, do I?" John asked, making his thrusts small and centered, trying to avoid the prostate for once. Sherlock went completely limp anyway, whimpering quietly with each withdraw and charge.

After about ten minutes, John took pity, reaching down to un-snap the cock ring. As he did so, the rush of blood had Sherlock screaming anew, and he immediately fisted his hands in the cuffs, holding desperately onto the chains holding his arms apart. Long legs tried to wind around John's waist as he reared back, planting his hands under Sherlock's knees and lifted his thighs to his pale chest, making his opening tighter and easier to drive in deep.

The detective bellowed as John slammed against his prostate numerous times, relentless in his torment. Sherlock came first with a shout, emptying himself all over his own stomach and thighs, as they were still held there. John ran his finger through the puddle, bringing the thick stuff up to Sherlock's lips. The younger man sucked on the digit greedily, swirling his tongue around his finger before throwing his head back and going limp except for the small motions of his hips, gyrating to meet John's thrusts, letting John finish. Taking his part out of the middle. A few more and John was there, emptying himself into the condom; not a feeling he entirely liked. Certainly not one he preferred. He preferred watching the come leak back out of his younger mate, or washing it out of him in the shower as they cleaned off. _Maybe later_, he mused.

There was a problem. John sensed it as soon as he came in the door, arms laden with groceries. As he mounted the stairs, he looked back in his mind's eye at the street, trying to place any odd cars. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Sherlock?" he called, coming through the door. Oh. It was Mycroft. John sighed and continued into the kitchen, putting the bags down and starting to put away the perishables.

"Hullo, Mycroft," he called, not wanting by any means to get into any kind of tryst between the constantly-vying brothers. He heard the sharp exhale of a derisive and silent laugh and winced. Mycroft knew.

"Glad you could do so well as to leave my brother able to sit, John," he returned, ignoring the plucking Sherlock was doing to cause frustration on his violin. "It must have been glorious, to see you fall so hard." Mycroft said with a sneer, directing the blow at Sherlock.

"I'm sure it was. John?" the detective glanced over into the kitchen where John was hiding. Pretending to rifle through cupboards to put groceries away. "John."

The doctor mentally winced and turned, coming to stand in the doorway, facing the two Holmes's. He could be all shy and act like an idiot, which Mycroft clearly anticipated, or he could own up to it.

"Actually I'm pretty certain that he's sitting on my worn-out flag pillow, Mycroft. I'd be surprised if he could sit straight, too." And he left, returning to the kitchen.

Mycroft was as surprised as his frozen face could allow, and Sherlock was smirking, trying not to laugh, despite how badly he wanted to. John never ever talked about them! How strange. He must be growing a pair, the detective mused.

"Well," Mycroft huffed, finding himself again. "I wanted you to look into a problem for me, Sherlock. It's probably nothing, but I'll send you and John here on holiday if you behave." He glanced toward the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It didn't matter now whether he wanted to look in on it or not; John would want that holiday. He was caught.

"What is it?" he drawled, making as big a deal as possible. Simply for show, of course. No sense in letting Mycroft think he was getting all soft on him. "I'm assuming since it's coming from you that it's to do with government information?"

"Of course," Sherlock nodded, frowning. So it would be boring, then. "A woman, recently in my employ as a sharp shooter, an assassin if you prefer, has made off with what I believe was some sensitive information on a thumb dive. I need it back. She shouldn't have left the city by now. She doesn't want money, but to be released from my employ."

"Which you will not give her because she knows too much?"

"Precisely." John had come to stand in the doorway of the parlor now, listening intently. Mycroft continued, "She knows far too much for me to let her go without killing her, although I'd very much like to avoid that. There's no way she's made copies of the information, or else she'd already be dead. It's not only me that's after her, you see."

"Other employers?" Sherlock asked, plucking the strings of his violin again. His brow was furrowed.

"No. the Americans call them 'whistleblowers'. She was in on the large unveiling of a huge amount of information that severely jeopardized the American position in the world as a leader and a wartime threat. She was a part of the Snowden campaign." Sherlock's eyebrows rose slightly.

"And she is not hiding with him?"

"No, I had already gotten her under my wing before Snowden released his information. She is still in the country."

"And what she possesses on the drive is the British response to the American information?"

"Correct."

"Hmm." The brothers sat in silence for a moment, the only sound in the flat was their combined breathing.

"What does she look like?" John piped up. Mycroft started, as if he forgot that the doctor was there.

"Oh, here," he sighed, handing Sherlock a printed photo of the girl walking across a street in London. Brown hair, long, in a ponytail at the back of her neck, dark eyes, normal height and weight. She was utterly unremarkable; completely able to blend into a crowd; no tattoos, nothing to identify her by. Fantastic.

"Do you have any idea where this girl may be?" Sherlock drawled, handing the photo to John after a cursory glance.

"Of course not, if I did I wouldn't be coming to you. All I can tell you is that she has no money, frozen accounts and no family to fall back on. Her best friend was this Snowden person and he is trapped in Russia at the moment."

"Right." The younger Holmes fell silent, refusing to say more until Mycroft finally sighed and let himself out. John relaxed into Sherlock's grey chair and waited. The first postulations would start coming out of him soon, and he'd want the doctor there to bounce ideas off of. It was just as well; John had already done the shopping, he had nothing to go out and do during the good hour of silence he had to look forward to—

"St Paul's," Sherlock mused, staring into the darkened fire place. His brows pressed together. He was latching onto something, but only part of it.

_Don't interrupt_, John's mind whispered a split second before he said something. He bit his tongue and sat still.

"She'll be hiding out in the chapel or around it," the detective finally mumbled, looking at the photo in John's hands out of narrowed eyes.

"How do you know?" he asked, waiting for some long, elaborate assumption that would inevitably turn out to be at least partially true.

"She has a crucifix around her neck. St Paul's has the hidden compartments in the ceiling that are used for storage and maintenance crews so that they can get to the higher areas without ladders which could scratch the building. She's used to heights, being a sniper. She'll be settled in one of the rooms, with a gun, no doubt. We'll go later," he sighed, stretching his back slightly in the chair. John realized that his mouth was hanging open when Sherlock cocked a crooked smile his direction.

"From a photo?" he asked, baffled.

"From a photo. Shower?" the younger man stood, holding out his hand. When John failed to take it immediately, Sherlock huffed, stalking out of the room in the direction of the bathroom, leaving his trousers outside the door.  
John studied the image, having to move the picture almost to the end of his nose to spot the tiny crucifix bouncing off the woman's chest, half obscured by her cloak. _How the bloody hell…._

He gave up when he heard the shower water start. One does not ignore an invitation to see Sherlock naked, let alone slide wet bodies together with him. The doctor all but ran to the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

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**A/N::**GROBY is the name of the Tietjens' family home in Parade's End, my favorite classic novel and subsequently another Cumberbatch show. watch and fall in love, folks. **

**as always, your love is desperately loved and needed to keep me going! i power down without your love! it's like a lovely jolt of energy! as always, let me know what scenes you'd like played out! i'll do my best :) **


	4. The First Taste of Jealousy

**here, squeedorable children. it took a left turn into an actual story, so i'll just have to write another kink meme later to make up for it; so sorry. like you care ;) smut is smut. but i'll write another story, i promises!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 4:**

John was left, as usual, sitting outside the massive chapel as Sherlock went inside to find the girl. The detective had all but insisted on going in alone. Something about the girl being dangerous and two men would be significantly more suspicious to her. John shrugged and admitted defeat, staying outside.

Sherlock ascended the stairs silently, leaving his long coat hanging off the newel post at the base of the staircase off the path of the tour. John would find it if something happened to him. He came to a hallway with four door coming off, two on each side. The two on the left opened into the bell tower, giving the inside person a view of the whole city, not to mention plenty of open air and the ability for a rapid escape. The two on the right would be storage rooms. The detective paused and opened the first door on the right.

To come nose to nose with a pink Desert Eagle, locked and loaded. Attached to the hand grip was a small pale hand, curled with white knuckles. It wasn't shaking the least bit. He felt his eyebrows rise slightly. Sherlock followed the line of her slender arm until he met a heart shaped face set in a thicket of hastily-chopped and dyed reddish brown hair. Her dark grey eyes were focused, trained entirely on his own.

Keep calm.

"Hello. My name is—"

"I know who you are, Sherlock Holmes. I spent half my last year looking down a barrel at you for your brother." _What?_

"How…how did Mycroft know where I was?"

"He didn't, I did. I knew you were hiding for good reason, so I kept it from him. All I was ordered to do was find you. I came back the day after you revealed yourself to the doctor, claiming the credit. Don't think he bought it; not that it matters now anyway." The girl backed away, unjamming the gun and stuffing it into her boot. Sherlock allowed himself a more cursory glance of his surroundings.

Military reserve roll-out cot. No bags. Dry toothbrush on the window ledge, dry water bottle next to the cot. No blanket. Wearing jeans, boots over the calves, loose grey t-shirt, zip-up hoodie, blue stripes. No shower in several days. Hungry, no sleep. Was that what he looked like on a case?

She didn't used to be an assassin. Where did she get her training?

"Israel, in case you're wondering." She had her back turned, but knew what he was looking at. Interesting.

"I don't even know your name," he started, moving fully into the room now, keeping a few paces away as he snooped deeper.

"Emile Darcy. I go by Darcy. Pleased to meet you."

"That is your real name?"

"It has been for ten years. So yes."

"Israel. Explain." He sniffed, smelling only bird droppings and dust. She had only been here a day or two. Mycroft had turned this over to him very quickly, or she was light on her feet, moving every day.

"I grew up in several countries, but we were in Israel when I was old enough to go through military training. So I did. Learned sharpshooting and some moves, picked up the rest on my feet doing odd jobs. Stayed in Japan for a while as well."

"Your accent is remarkably untraceable," he commented, frustrated. It was true, most times she sounded simply American with the preposterous blends of pronunciation and dialectic patterns. She smiled.

"Comes with the territory. Where is your doctor? I can practically smell him on you." At his sharp look she _giggled_. Not something a person who thinks they're getting turned over to the head of the government does. She knew he was too curious to hand her over. At least not yet.

"Outside."

"Ah, trying to keep him safe from the unpredictable, are we? Again?" she narrowed her eyes, cocking her head with a disproving smile on her lips. He sneered.

"Yes, always." He probably just walked him and his boyfriend into a trap, but the words were said. Nothing else to do about them.

"Well, I'd love to meet him, but as you know, I'm on the lam. So if you'll—"

"No. I can't let you leave, Mycroft's idiots will find you on the street. It took me less than a minute to decide where you were, they wouldn't have been far behind if he'd entrusted you to them. Be glad he gave in to me so quickly. You'll come home with me and John, for now anyway. Can you clean?"

She balked, mouth half ajar. "Clean?"

"Yes, our landlady is a terrible housemaid. If you can keep the place clean and cook then I can get John to let you stay in one of our rooms. We will stay together in the other room. Two men having raucous and or violent sex wouldn't bother you would it?" he asked, abruptly, turning back to ace her from where he had been texting at the window. "I mean if you walked in or we were on the sofa or something?"

She didn't even laugh. "No, of course not. So long as I can touch," she winked, standing up and rolling the bed into a backpack, stuffing the water bottle in with it and tucking the massive gun into the back of her jeans. Sherlock noted that it was faintly pink, with an anchor with rope stamped on the slide. He must ask about that later.

"You'd have to ask John about that," he answered grimly. Opening the door for her. They walked down to where he had left his coat hanging, almost running over John where he stood holding the coat, a sour look on his face.

"Glad you're alive. Who's this, then?" he asked, not really looking at Darcy. Sherlock smirked.

"This is our target," he answered blandly. "Subsequently, our new nanny, provided that you don't freak out and tell Mycroft, that is."

John's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Sher_lock_, no. NO. I'm not harboring any more fugitives in our flat! Irene was bad enough! And look where it got her!"

"What, alive and in America with a brand new life? Remind me to cry about it later. She's coming with us, John, deal with it." When John started to protest again, the taller man rounded on him, backing the doctor nearly off his feet into a wall. "I'll not let another…albeit _relatively_ innocent person die by my _brother's_ hand, John. If you can stomach that, then you're not who I thought you were." John fell silent, admitting defeat, albeit still angry. "Pick a room for us to move into, she'll be taking the other. I assume you'll want me in your room since you put the swing in there," the detective was already halfway down the next flight of stairs as he kept walking, making the assassin and John run to keep up.

"I'm Darcy," she sighed, shaking John's hand as they crawled into a cab and headed back to Baker Street. John nodded and shook her hand, thinking about Sherlock's backing him into the wall. He rather liked it, in a _totally hated it_ kind of way. Hmm.

They arrived a short drive later, passing the time in peaceable silence, only broken by a few questions here of there on the doctor's part.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled, tramping his shoes on the threshold and stepping inside the bottom level of the flat. The older woman came out of her kitchen door, eyes wide and questioning. "This," he held out an arm to bring her forward, "is Darcy. She'll be living in my old room and staying here as our nanny. Do _not_ say anything to Mycroft about her being here, alright?" his eyes were huge, intense.

"Oh, okay you troublemakers," Mrs. Hudson nodded, smiling at the younger girl and bringing her in for a hug, offering tea or a scone. Darcy shook her head, eager to have the door shut behind them so that Mycroft's cameras wouldn't catch glimpse of her.

"Let's get moving, shall we?" the detective nodded, bounding up the stairs.

** (*%& %& #$&%**

Several hours later, Darcy was in a new room with an actual bed for the first time in months. Sherlock had moved his clothes and random accoutrements up to John's room, where she had indeed spotted a leather sex swing. Trying to hide her giggle, she ran back down the stairs for more stuff. She was still pretty sure that John heard her, though.

"So where is the thumb drive?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the door jamb on what was now her room. It still smelled like him, she noted. He launched off the ledge, striding to the closet and pulling out a wooden box with a lock on it as he waited for her answer.

"It's safe, on my person. There's no point in telling you otherwise. And it will stay there until I can assure my safety from your brother."

"So all you want is assurance?"

"Yes, of course. I want to live a relatively normal life, even if it means staying here with you crazy nut bags. Now," she said, standing up from the bed where she had been sitting. "What sounds good for dinner?"

Sherlock let her pass and listened to her rummaging through their kitchen, fussing over the lab equipment. He stayed in her doorway, peering around the practically empty room, wondering where she would have put the thumb drive did he even _want_ to give it to Mycroft? No. But if it kept her safe…maybe. He had no other cards to play, anyway.

The detective settled in at the table after moving a few beakers and Bunsen burners off to the side. Darcy was quiet but hummed along as she worked, organizing the mess as she went.

"I can see why you two need a nanny. This place is a mess!" she sighed, re-organizing at least three cupboards before whatever meat she was frying was done cooking. Sherlock sat in silence, watching.

John had meandered down at some point, settling in the parlor with his newspaper and a cuppa. He hadn't even had to make it; Darcy had boiled the water and completely made the tea for him exactly how he took it, without even asking. Not even Sherlock managed that, and he was remarkably observant. Just not about the finer tastes of humans, only their mental workings and environments. Darcy may well be the missing puzzle piece, he decided.

"John! Come eat," she cried, setting the table around Sherlock and plating out the food. The younger man sat surprisingly still; probably in his mind palace, the doctor decided. "Pan fried chicken, rosemary potatoes and carrots?" she sighed, sitting herself across from the two men and watching them carefully. John dug in, starving. Sherlock, typically, just sat there picking absently. Darcy ignored him and ate. Eventually the younger man took to the food, cleaning his plate by the time the other two were done.

John narrowed his eyes. He'd only seen Sherlock do that twice, and both times there was something either bothering him, or going dangerously right in his head. The good doctor shivered, taking his plate to the sink to wash it. Darcy took it from him, winking wordlessly and nodding imperceptibly back at his boyfriend. John took it as an invitation, handing her Sherlock's plate as well and asking the detective if he wanted to go to bed soon.

Sherlock stretched as he stood, coming forward and wrapping his arms around Darcy from behind, startling them all. Sherlock did _not_ hug. John could feel the steam coming out of his ears. If Mr. Bloody Holmes thought he was getting away with this—

"Thanks you for dinner, Darcy, it was delicious. I'll speak for John and myself, since he's gone catatonic. We'll see you in the morning, if I can walk," he drawled, almost bored, striding out of the kitchen and up the staircase to John's—and his—bedroom.

"John, shut your mouth and go ride that boy. He wants to be smacked around. Don't give in," she added with a devious whisper, winking at him when his eyes snapped to her. She laughed, a glittery trilling sound, and went back to washing the dishes to the tune of some song she was humming perfectly. The older man squared his shoulders, walking upstairs to face his handful of detective.

**# $&!(* #&$**

When John rounded the corner to his bedroom he found Sherlock backed in the corner, sitting on the edge of the sex swing in just his pants, trying to look as innocent as possible. Which was completely _im_possible with those eyes. Let alone him being almost naked.

"Get on the bed," John sighed, shrugging out of his clothes entirely. "And take your pants off," he added, watching the cheeky bastard crawl over the bed all long limbs and thin torso interrupted by black cotton. The detective grumbled, sliding back off the bed and kicking out of the underwear, leaving them crumpled on the floor.

Sherlock assumed the position, sprawling across the bed, head hitched up on one hand, elbow propping him up, waiting. John steeled himself; he'd never done this before. He took a deep breath, following Sherlock up onto the bed with a bottle of lubricant and a toy. The detective's eyes flashed, curious, drinking in the information. He started to roll onto his stomach fully but John's hand stopped him, handing over the items instead of setting them to the side.

"Tonight it's my turn. That's your punishment, if you can call it that; not getting smacked around but in turn getting to open me up for the first time in a _very_ long time." Randomly, flashes of memory from college and early military days went through his mind; experiments. That's all they amounted to, he never got buggered. Sherlock was going to be his first. _And hopefully last_, a smaller part of him admitted. He suppressed the memories and worked on creating a new one.

Sherlock's' eyes were wide with shock. _Put on a good show_, he reminded himself, pouting a bit as he took the lube and toy from John, pushing the older man onto his stomach gently.

"Oh shut it," John sighed, letting himself be rolled over. Sherlock loomed over and behind him, pushing his legs apart with his knee as long violinist's fingers trailed goose bumps over his whole back side. John was tense, but it was evident that he had been thinking of this for a while and he definitely wanted it.

Sherlock did his best to calm his doctor down first, pressing kisses all along his spine, trailing fingers down his sides, raising goose bumps and making the man tremble with every touch. He waited until John started wiggling his arse suggestively to slick up his fingers, running a single finger down his crack, teasing the older man. Sherlock pressed a hand to John's good shoulder, giving him some grounding as he slid his first finger in halfway, letting John get used to the intrusion for a quick second before he began working it in and out. The doctor was breathing evenly, though Sherlock suspected that it came with some force of will to do so.

Sherlock switched tactics; otherwise they were going to be there all night and the detective would still only manage to have two fingers up there. He shifted his weight, removing his finger and spreading John's legs out further so he could settle on his belly between them. He spread John's cheeks apart gently, nosing in between them as he listened to John's quickened breathing.

Licking a long stripe up the doctor's crack, Sherlock grinned, settling in to open up John's ass a gentler way. The man in question squirmed, pushing back unconsciously against Sherlock's face, driving himself into the soft texture of the duvet, back and forth as he sought release.

"Ah-ah," Sherlock reprimanded, planting a long hand on either butt cheek, pinning John to the mattress with his weight and diving back in. he pressed his lips against the puckered entrance with a chaste kiss before stiffening his tongue and pressing in, using his lips to bite and suck at the rim around it.

Not a minute later, John was a panting, writhing mess on the sheet, hands fisted in the pillow case under his head. "Please," he moaned, clenching his thighs under Sherlock's arms.

"Please what John? Use your words," he breathed against skin. "Tell me what you like. Be specific," the detective warned, knowing that John was just as likely to be vague as he was to simply moan again. When he got no reply he pulled back. "John, tell me what you like or I'll stop,"

"Don't you dare! I—ugh! I like your tongue in my arse, I like how you're palming and squeezing my cheeks, teasing… God just start stretching me already, _please_," the doc squirmed, nearly screaming when Sherlock ignored him for another long minute.

Without preamble Sherlock stuck two fingers in his mouth, pulling back from John only slightly, and drove them to the second knuckle in the spit-slicked hole of the good doctor. John let out a long wail, arching his back so that his chest was up off the bed before settling back in, giving over to the detective's ministrations.

Sherlock worked his fingers deftly, never touching the center of John's prostate but rather skimming either side of it with well-practiced fingers, never giving John what he fully wanted as he stretched him. The toy lay forgotten, ready for a later use if it was necessary. Sherlock felt it might be; he was a little jealous of not getting this treatment himself; he'd grown to love it. But it felt _right_ to do this for John just now. His attention had been away from the older man since Darcy had entered their life earlier that day, and he could sense human emotion well enough to know that John was getting irritated at his new plaything. Just then the younger man scissored his fingers as wide as they would go, adding a third into the empty space. John keened a deep moan, biting into the corner of the pillow case as he came down, rutting into the bed in truth now.

"I think you're almost ready, John," Sherlock whispered against his skin, biting down on one plush cheek as the doctor squeaked his response. He growled, half-turning back to face Sherlock.

"I need your cock in me now, damn it, Sherlock!" he all but screamed, silenced by a very hot and needy mouth closing over his as Sherlock got on his hands and knees, crawling up over his flat mate—boyfriend? Flat mate. He tugged on John's hips until the doctor complied, propping himself up on elbows and knees as Sherlock lined up behind him.

"Breathe," the detective murmured as he pressed in, sinking just the head past that first oh-so-tight ring of muscle. He paused until John's breathing evened out and pressed in deeper in one steady, slow motion until he bottomed out.

"Oh _fuck_," John breathed, burying his head in the pillow again. Sherlock chuckled and drew out a bit, thrusting in slow and deliberate a few times so that John got used to the motion before he got a bit more enthusiastic.

John was canting his hips in perfect rhythm, rearing back against the younger man as he slid in and out of the tight heat that was his beloved doctor. He angled downward a bit after a few minutes, ensuring that he was rubbing hard over John's prostate with every other thrust, driving the smaller man wild. He was panting in a matter of seconds, reaching under himself to grasp his painfully hard cock, stroking it as a second thought as he was driven into by the world's best fuck, Sherlock Holmes.

The man in question was barely hanging on to John's hips, breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to stave off his orgasm until John came hard and loud. He didn't have to wait long; John started to tense around him in the next second, his breath hitching a second before he was screaming, thick ropes of come splattering over the duvet beneath him. Suddenly all that was holding the doctor up was Sherlock's fingers digging into his hips, sure to leave bruises. He didn't care, he _wanted_ them. A marker of their secret life together.

The detective stilled behind him, letting go of John's hips and letting the older man sink down into his puddle of ejaculate, dropping down on top of him with a grunt as he emptied himself into John's arsehole. He waited until their breathing slowed before rolling off, dragging the older man onto his side as he did so, leaving a hand on his ribs. The detective became in the next second absorbed in the rising and sinking of his hand as John's ribs took in and expelled breath, so much so that he completely missed half of what the good doctor said.

"What was that?" he asked, scooting closer so that he was pressed up against John; the big spoon, as it were.

"I said that was fantastic, thank you," he sighed, trying to sit up and failing. Sherlock laughed and pushed John out of the bed so he landed hard on his knees, avoiding the responding swipe of the army man's arm as he did so.

"You're welcome," he laughed, sliding off the bed and digging around for his pants. He pulled them on and strode out, no doubt heading to the bathroom to shower; directly where John was heading. He rolled his eyes and followed, bracing himself for whatever the assassin in the parlor might say.

* * *

**leave your message after the beep...beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppp**

**ps, by message i mean hints at what you want to see! please? i'll make the next porn quite porny if you do! i swears it on the precious.**


	5. Doling Out the Pain

**A/N: Howdy! i've been wanting to write this chapter since i started this fic! DISCLAIMER: hope you like MILKING!**

**I DONT OWN ANYBODY, but if i did, you'd never hear from me or Benedict again!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 5:**

"Well this is new," John huffed, relaxing back into the sofa as Darcy handed him and Sherlock each a plate of breakfast. "Thanks." She'd been living at 221B for a good two weeks now, and the place had never looked better, in John's opinion. What was new, the doctor thought, was that Sherlock was eating her food like a horse as opposed to his usual picky eating-once-a-week self. It was a good improvement.

Today, though…today was different. They hadn't had a case in as many weeks and Sherlock had fast become completely impossible to be around. He'd been throwing tantrums, sticking disembodied body parts and foul things in every possible jar and container; trying to hide them from Darcy had proven impossible. She had a perfect eidetic memory.

He poked his food around the plate, scowling at anyone who chastised him for not eating it, and left the room without having taken a bite of anything.

Back to normal then. The holiday had been short-lived.

Not ten minutes after the detective had disappeared, he came sprinting back out of his room, holding his phone aloft, the screen lit up. He had gotten a hit, then. John placed his plate down and waited for Sherlock to read out the message. Instead, just to be contrary, Sherlock threw down his phone and waltzed into the bathroom, getting into the shower. John grumbled, leaning down to get the phone off the grey chair before he thought better of reading Sherlock's messages and instead stuck his hand out to take Darcy's plate into the kitchen.

"You know what I'd do?" she mentioned, as passively as possible.

"What's that?" he asked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was going to be sexual, just like her last comment to him was_. Could be interesting_…part of him thought quietly.

"I'd tie him up and _milk_ him before you go out to the scene. He'll be itchy and achy all day, and still be _dying_ for it when you get home." God, she wasn't even looking at him! She'd picked up the mobile from just under his hand and was scrolling through his messages! It was a good...no a _great_ idea, he thought. "Go get him started while he's naked, tiger," she trilled, taking the plates from him and scurrying into the kitchen, cleaning them off.

John rubbed his eyes and conceded, padding away into the bathroom, which Sherlock always left unlocked nowadays. He shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it as he shrugged off his t-shirt and untied his pyjama trousers, letting them fall at his ankles. He stepped out of them and went to the shower curtain, pulling it aside to see his detective standing under the spray, arms crossed, waiting for him with an evil glint in his eyes.

"What's this, John? A polite takeover?" he asked, voice eerily small and polite for his stance. John readied himself for an attack, trying to map out how to brace his body in a wet shower stall. Maybe he was feeling contrary, or maybe he didn't want to fight it, but instead of taking the reins Sherlock instead shifted his face, dropping his arms. Compliant.

"Precisely. You've been a right bastard lately and I'm sick of it. Finish up and get to the bedroom, we've got business to attend to before we go meet Lestrade. Sherlock was quick to comply, scrubbing shampoo through his curls and using the lather as a body wash to speed up the process. John had to laugh at his desperation, despite the glower he received. The doctor stepped forward, crowding against Sherlock under the spray and wrapping his arms around the younger man, dipping his hands a bit lower as he did so. John smoothed some of the soap down Sherlock's back, using his lower center of gravity to press the taller man's right shoulder, turning him. Instead of reaching around like Sherlock thought he was going to, John slid to his knees, sluicing water down the younger man's back. He took the extra water and got the bar soap wet, using his fingers to knead in the lather, working the bar up and down Sherlock's crack. The younger man gasped, shifting his hips back a little for easier access. John smiled, slipping a finger in Sherlock's tight hole with the soap as lubricant, cleaning him thoroughly for their future activities. By the time he was done, Sherlock was pink all over, not from the heat of the water but from the sheer raise in blood pressure as lust and adrenaline flooded his veins.

He drew out the torment a bit, standing up and washing himself after Sherlock was out from under the spray.

"Well don't just sit there and pout, make yourself useful with those lips," he grumbled, rinsing his hair out. Sherlock smiled wickedly and dropped his to knees immediately. He parted those unfairly beautiful lips and swallowed John down whole, working him to full hardness in a matter of seconds.

"God, Sherlock, stop or I'll be done before we start," he grimaced, pulling his hips back. A reluctant sound escaped the younger man as he let go with a pop, standing up and exiting the shower.

"Don't bother, just go get on the bed," John snapped, taking the towel out of Sherlock's hands and pushing him out the bathroom door. "On your knees on the floor, facing the foot of the bed," he added to the disappearing figure in the hall.

Sherlock sprinted to their room, throwing the blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed, getting down like he was told. Anticipation thundered under his skin, ripping apart his veins. He didn't know what else to do, so he waited, watching John with an eagle eye as the older man padded around the room, shutting the door and rummaging through the bedside drawers before going into the closet for their toy box. Sherlock shuddered, wondering what John was getting in there. He didn't have to wait long.

The good doctor came out a few minutes later carrying that accursed curved vibrator and two wrist cuffs with one long chain. Sherlock felt his eyes narrow before he told them to do so. John smiled, kneeling next to the younger man and wrapping one thick leather cuff around his wrist, clipping the chain to the D-ring and running the long chain width-wise behind the footboard. He came to the other side of Sherlock and held his hand out. The taller man sat perfectly still, ignoring the request.

"What are you—" he began just before his head snapped sideways, the sting of a back hand echoing across his cheek. For a minute his left eye refused to open, he'd been hit so hard. His mouth watered, loving it. _Should I give it to him, or wait to get hit again? Will he just walk out if I refuse?_ Sherlock pondered, wavering before he began to lift his wrist. John took it roughly, slapping the cuff around it, which pulled Sherlock's body taught across the width of the footboard. He was stretched to almost full wingspan, face planted on the floor, arse in the air as he stood on his knees. John licked his lips. He sank to his knees behind Sherlock, picking up the small bottle of lube and thumbing open the cap. Sherlock shifted his weight. John could practically palpate the tension and curiosity coming off him in waves. John placed a bowl in between Sherlock's knees on the duvet.

"Do you want to know what I'm going to do, or not?" he asked, running a slick finger delicately down Sherlock's crevice. The younger man jumped as he brushed over his entrance, relaxing a bit more and adjusting his stance a bit wider for John's accommodation.

"Yes," he groaned, turning his face to the side so he wasn't nose-down on the blanket. At least he'd had the presence of mind to do this instead of let the carpet bite into his knees. John pressed his first finger in, demanding that Sherlock relax immediately. He did, canting his hips up a little to show that he was putting some effort into it.

"I'm going to _milk_ you dry, then you're going to suck me off. After that, we're going to the crime scene and you'll work your magic, as fast as possible. You know why?"

"Why," Sherlock asked, thighs trembling as he thought about what John was saying. He'd never been milked, obviously, but he suspected it was going to be terrible. Why else would he try to solve the murder quickly?

"Because you're going to be begging for it, Sherlock," John said menacingly. He turned his head, sinking his teeth into Sherlock's flank, making the younger man jump and yelp. "You'll be _so_ achingly hard and too dry to do anything about it. That's your punishment for today, for being a prat lately." Sherlock trembled and fisted his hands in the cuffs, letting his head drop back down to the floor. John slipped the next two fingers in in rapid succession, making the younger man feel the burn as he stretched Sherlock for the toy.

John removed his fingers, slicking the toy up before inserting it in the younger man's hole, twisting it into position before turning it on the middle setting of five. Sherlock clacked his teeth together audibly, screwing his eyes shut and shaking against the sensation. John reached between his legs, running a slicked hand over Sherlock's erection.

"Gah," he gasped, thighs trembling as he fought to keep still for John's ministrations. The older man ran a calming hand over Sherlock's flank, grounding him again.

John let the toy buzz for several minutes, until Sherlock was squirming in midair and panting hard. With a twinge of regret he switched it off, tugging the toy out and pressing it back in a few times, just to enjoy the sight of watching his lover's hole stretch and constrict around the plastic.

John huffed his own impatience away, replacing the toy with two fingers, crooking them just right to place a finger on either side of Sherlock's prostate. He didn't come near the center; not yet. Sherlock hissed, drawing his arms up as much as he could, pressing back against John's fingers.

"Talk to me, Sherlock," John murmured, circling the bump of nerves with one finger, using the other to circle it in the opposite direction afterward. Once Sherlock was panting again, John focused both fingers in the center, pressing down roughly. Sherlock gasped, the rush of seminal fluid taking him by surprise as his testicles drew up, expelling come without the feeling of release that came with an orgasm. The sound in the bowl was sloppy, sickening. Then again, he was glad it wasn't on the duvet. He still felt hard, achingly so, and still in desperate need of release. God, this was going to be terrible!

"Jesus, John, it feels…_ugh_!" Sherlock huffed, wriggling his arse a bit more against John's fingers, seeking an actual orgasm. John pulled is fingers out entirely, and for one swift heartbeat Sherlock thought that he was lining up his cock to fuck him! Instead he got a hard spank, wrenching a yelp out of the younger man's chest.

"Ah-ah! You take your punishment, _sir_," John said derisively, delving his fingers back in delicately enough to completely avoid Sherlock's prostate but rather circle it again, amping up the pressure until he felt the squeeze of non-orgasmic release again.

The detective groaned, tears brushing his eyelashes as he fought back his need to scream, to rant at his beloved doctor. _God_, he hated this, but that would just make the end game all that much better, right? If it was long enough of a wait then his testicles would have produced another round of semen by then, right? Allowing him to actually come? He tried focusing on the math, counting down the hours and how long he could extend the crime scene time before he got another, much sharper crack across his arse. This one actually came with a scream and a fairly hard fight to get away, as he had not expected it at all.

"No, Sherlock, stay here with me. If you go off into your little head again, I'll cane you tonight instead of fucking you into the mattress." _Jesus_, John's mouth could be so dirty at times. And he was being so nonchalant about it! Like it wasn't torture! "Talk to me," he chided again, making his little demands.

"Ugh!" Sherlock moaned, clamping down his muscles on John's fingers, making the older man realize what he was missing. _Just get him inside you, at any cost,_ Sherlock thought to himself, now officially desperate for a good fuck. Just as the thought hit him, a painful sort of empty pressure closed in on his testicles, making him hitch his breath. John had milked the last few trickles of semen out of him, into the bowl on the blanket. He was dry, and painfully hard still. John stood up on sore knees, as they had fallen asleep, walking back to the closet for their box of toys and selecting a rubber butt plug out of the din. The doctor dribbled some lube on it and pressed it firmly into the detective's arse, a finger tracing the base as it wedged Sherlock's pale globes apart just beautifully. John smirked, leaning in and running his teeth down one of those pale mounds of flesh, raking goose bumps over Sherlock's flesh and wrenching a small sob out of the man.

"My turn," John hissed, coming round to sit on the floor in front of Sherlock, legs laying on top of the younger man's stretched arms and encouraging Sherlock to lay flat on his belly, sandwiching his aching cock between his stomach and the floor. The young detective struggled to hold his head up, waiting for John to get situated before he swallowed the member whole, trying to show off for John. God, he was still holding out hope that John would give in and fuck him senseless!

The doctor seemed to sense this, fisting his hand in Sherlock's curls and wrenching his head back, off John's cock until just the tip was still caught between those gorgeous lips.

"I am not going to fuck you, Sherlock, and if you keep up the attitude, I won't until you earn it, got it?" Sherlock's eyes flew wide, disbelief staining them. He nodded, moaning around John's girth as he was allowed to continue his blow job.

It only took a few minutes before John re-situated himself, getting on his knees under Sherlock's head to allow for thrusting. Sherlock lay there, letting John fuck his face until he felt the telltale pulse against his tongue, swallowing hard until John's come shot hot and heady down his long, pale throat. He suckled at the tip at John drew back, making the older man quake from the overstimulated nerves. John let his legs unfold, laughing gently as the younger man's head flopped into his lap, exhausted. The doctor leaned to the side, unbuckling the wrist cuffs one at a time.

"Whew." John sighed, slapping a hand to his chest. Sherlock still lay there like a slug, unable to move. His cock still bore the dull ache of untended release, and his arse clenched around the plug, seeking release that he wouldn't get for several more hours. "Let's get ready," John huffed, pushing Sherlock to the side and getting up, rooting around for his long-lost trousers and a pair of pants. "Sherlock?"

"I'm calling in sick today," was the muffled reply, echoing from where Sherlock had his face pressed into the blanket, propped up on his arm only slightly so that he had room to breathe. John rolled his eyes, tugging on his clothes and coming over to swat his flat mate's arse with the back of his hand. The younger man flinched slightly, groaning and rolling over onto his back.

"Like hell you are. Now get up or I'll have Lestrade come get you," John groaned, stretching and popping his back after being on the floor so long. Sherlock grumbled and threw a sock at John, throwing his arm over his eyes like a child. The doctor hid a grin and grabbed up a pair of pants, walking over and shoving them up Sherlock's long legs, snapping the waistband around his hips for good measure. "Do I need to get Darcy in here?"

"NO!" Sherlock bellowed, sitting up and crawling to his clothes, pulling them on piece by piece. John smirked. _New_ _threat_, he thought. Darcy could just about scare anyone into doing anything she pleased; it was good to know that someone had sway over everyone's favorite consulting detective, even if it _wasn't_ his lover. The twinge of jealousy was overridden by the flat disc of the plug pushing against the fabric of Sherlock's pants as he pulled his trousers on, making John smile.

Oh yes, this was going to be fun.

* * *

"Upstairs," Greg sighed, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock had just arrived and was hobbling a bit, a haughty look hitched across his face. Lestrade was _not_ in the mood to deal with crazy today, and it didn't seem like it was going to get any better. Best course of action was to get Sherlock out of his face entirely, by redirecting him to what he wanted anyway: the body. The younger man strode evenly up to the stairs and paused, making a face before clambering up them in an oddly slow and measured gait. Greg narrowed his eyes to think but was distracted by John arriving beside him just then.

"So what do you have so far?" the doctor asked, standing a few feet to Greg's left. He was watching Sherlock go up the steps as well, with a slightly proud look on his face. One which he was failing to hide, apparently. One glance at Lestrade reminded him, though, and the usual frown took over.

"Body, looks like a simple shoot-and-ditch, but some chemicals surrounding the body and under the nails had me wanting Sherlock to take a peek…. Are you two…?" Greg trailed off, pointing up at the ceiling to mime for Sherlock and narrowing his eyes at John. John looked back, giving the DI his best confused look, and waited. Lestrade seemed unwilling to continue the question. Maybe he'd get his answer from Sherlock in a few minutes when the man came down and declared them all to be idiots.

True to form, Sherlock came tearing down the stairs a good fifteen minutes later, declaring that the man, from Ruen, France (obvious) came here and was killed by his second cousin, (probably once removed, obviously) over the recent divorce of a mutual cousin and their inheritances in the will. The chemical was a sulfur-coal compound; one of them was likely a miner of some kind.

"Anything else of import?" he asked, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Well, actually," Greg started, scanning the crime scene for anything he could possibly get Sherlock to look at. "Can you make out what kind of tire tracks these are? It would help us nail 'em down if it's not a cab." The younger man rolled his eyes and bit his lip, rushing past the two older men to get a look at the mud outside the small house. John was trying hard not to laugh, Greg noticed, and Sherlock was looking at the ground with a grimace, refusing to kneel down and get a better look.

Something was definitely up….

"It doesn't look like a cab, definitely not a small, personal compact car. Something mid-sized or greater. Could even be a Land Rover. Yes, I think so. Land rover," the detective mused, tapping his lips with his fingertips. "John?" the doctor looked at him plainly, an air of a question in his glance.

"Yeah?"

"What do you think?"

"Erm, yeah, heavy car, probably a rover or something big. A van? Not a cab, definitely not a compact."

"Right," Greg chimed in, still looking back and forth between the two. The DI scrambled for anything else, coming up short. "Well, I guess that's it," he said reluctantly, throwing a meaningful look at John. The doctor caught it, blushing slightly as Sherlock swept from the scene, hailing a cab and waiting for John to crawl in ahead of him.

"If you want me to look at the bodies, have Molly text me," he called, sliding in the door and shutting it.

* * *

**A/N:: hey guys, i know that was short, sorry but i figured that you'd rather have the chapter now than in 2 days when i could post next! hope you enjoyed, tell me what you want to see next; i haven't written it yet so could be anything! ps-i have started a new story and this one is DEFINITELY a solely kink meme related story. picture john as sub, sherlock domming, and enter lestrade as switch-off. it shall commence soon! be prepared and buy extra panties!** see you soon!


	6. Opening You Up

**toying! gah, i have a weird thing for it, it makes me all happy to see two guys playing with rubber cocks for some reason. hope you do to, cuz that's what this one's about! ps-sorry these are getting shorter as we go on; i've been swarmed in homework and work lately. hopefully the next one will be super long to make up for it! ps, i already have the heartbreaking finale typed out, so be prepared when i warn you to have a box of tissues next to your computer or mobile! suckerssssssss! **

**Chapter 6: **

"GaaaaaaaaAAAAAHhhh!" Sherlock wailed, the note lingering in the crisp early winter air of 221B. The women were out for the day, shopping and visiting sisters, so John had strapped his younger ward to the table in the kitchen and was presently going through Sherlock's dildo collection, sizing up from the smallest to the largest. "Oh fffffuck," the detective groaned, hands fisting on the countertop. John sat back and enjoyed the view, keeping two fingers pressed to the end of the toy he'd just shoved into his partner.

Sherlock was on top of the table, bodily, with his legs splayed wide in a split. One long calf was dangling over each side of the table, a leather cuff wrapped around it and chained to the leg of the table closest to John. His torso was laid flat along the length of the wood on his belly, arms curved up behind him, spreading his cheeks for John's fun. It was a beautiful sight. John could barely help himself as he leaned forward and nipped Sherlock's right cheek next to his fingers sharply, causing a hard flinch and a whimper.

"What if Darcy comes home and sees you like this?" the doctor asked, tugging the toy out a bit before pressing it back in. Sherlock trembled. This one wasn't very large, but the focus he had was already shattered. What was the question?

"Sherlock?" John tapped his arse. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, John. I suppose it wouldn't matter, she said she wouldn't mind walking in on us so long as she could touch," he forced a barked laugh, the feeling a bit odd with his lower half so stretched out. John paused for a small second before smirking and continuing his ministrations.

It had been a good two weeks since John had come home from that crime scene where he had milked Sherlock beforehand, and he's thoroughly ravaged the man before allowing himself to be plundered. Sherlock had needed it after what they'd gotten into, and it had been glorious. The angst, anger, and power rolled into one deliriously long fuck had led to them taking it easy for a bit; blowjobs and rutting since then. Until today, when Sherlock had pushed his toy box down the stairs and looked at John for a solid minute before suggesting anything. This hadn't been his suggestion, but he certainly wasn't complaining.

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when John leaned forward and traced his tongue around the stretched muscle where it met the rubber of the toy. His breath hitched, making him flush red. John smirked against his skin and huffed out a laugh.

"Would you let her?" Sherlock asked, voice cracking a bit. He hid his face in the table top, embarrassed at how easily he was falling apart under John's touch. John tugged the toy all the way out, reaching in the box for the next size up.

"Touch you?"

"Mmhm."

"I suppose. Would you like her to?" John greased up a purple rubber cock, about twenty centimetres long and maybe five in diameter. This one would have to go slow. He unceremoniously stuck three fingers in Sherlock's arse, just to feel the heat before rubbing over his prostate as he was pulling back out. The blunt head of the toy was pressed against his hole, and with a deep breath and some focus, it slid in carefully. By the time he was halfway down it, Sherlock's breathing had spiked up and his thighs were shaking on the hardwood. John ran a hand over the smooth skin of his arse as the front door opened and slammed shut. Darcy was home, with groceries. She'd be headed straight for the kitchen. Both of the men froze. Sherlock almost let loose of his spreading hold on his arse.

He whipped his head back to face John.

"God, yes," he muttered. John smirked and waited for Darcy to round the corner of the door, to see her face. Sherlock hid his face in the table again. He didn't know if he could face her like this!

True to form, Darcy came around the bend of the door to the flat, straight into the kitchen where Sherlock was stretched out in all his glory, the doctor behind him in a chair, and their toy box at his feet. She stumbled a bit in her steps, shocked and fighting a giggle.

Well, what do we have here, now?" she asked moving behind John to put the perishables away. She took her time, letting her eyes ghost over the two men as John was relentless in his toying of the younger man's arse. Just as she was putting away the last of the produce, John cleared his throat.

"Darcy, I'm going to get the next size up. Would you be willing to go round front and distract Sherlock for a moment? It might hurt a bit." The younger man's thighs were quaking on the hardwood, hands clenching the soft pliant flesh of his arse in anticipation. The heat of his breath had made a little cloud on the surface of the table. Darcy moved so that she was on the opposite end of the table from John, leaning over from her hips so that she was directly in Sherlock's face. He'd lifted his head to watch her.

"What do you want me to do, John? I'd love to kiss him senseless," she breathed, her lips close to Sherlock's. His back strained, trying to push himself the extra inch forward to press his needy mouth against her full lips. Would it be so different from kissing John?

"Oh, do what you'd like, certainly. I'll be busy back here," the doctor sighed, playfully smacking Sherlock's arse hard enough to make him whimper against her mouth before tugging the toy the rest of the way out. The younger man's hips canted up at the emptiness, a groan escaping his lips as Darcy came a bit closer, teasing him.

"You have to ask for it, Sherlock. John's done well by you, I can tell," she whispered against his lips. A pleading whine escaped his lips, neck straining to meet her lips with his.

"Please, Darcy. Kiss me," Sherlock sobbed, his voice cracking as he bucked against his restraints, the threat of the next largest dildo he had at his entrance. Darcy pressed forward, claiming Sherlock's mouth gently, and then more firmly as she felt his attention turn to his back side. He let her explore, let her set the pace as he moved his mouth against hers. It was much softer than kissing John, less of a hostile takeover and more of a persuasive reminder that there was more than two occasionally horny people in this flat. He moaned against her lips, biting the lower one as John pressed the toy in all the way, kneading Sherlock's cheeks around the intrusion and watching the girl distract him so effectively. The older man proceeded to fuck Sherlock with the dildo, dragging it in and out at a sharp angle, rubbing incessantly over his desperate prostate.

"John, if you don't fuck him soon, he's going to melt," Darcy grumbled, fisting a hand in the top of Sherlock's curls, yanking his head back as far as it would go. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes half shut in ecstasy but pleading. He'd let go of his cheeks to follow her tug backwards, and John was taking advantage, gripping the soft pale skin, mouthing it a few times before he pulled the toy out and laid it on the towel on the floor with the others. Darcy had her teeth set in Sherlock's throat now, making little red marks over his arteries and veins, lapping her tiny pink tongue over the bite marks to soothe the sting. Sherlock had his eyes squeezed shut, struggling to hold himself upright with so many sensations bombarding him. It was pure ecstasy.

"John," he choked, eyes wild when they opened. The doctor sat behind him, slicking up his cock. "Fuck me, dammit!" the younger man screamed, writhing against the cold hardwood and seeking out Darcy's mouth again. She chuckled softly into his needy mouth before giving him what he wanted. Her eyes were open, fixed on John lining up at Sherlock's entrance. She matched her lips to Sherlock's as John slid in, barely meeting resistance as he'd been working Sherlock open for the better part of the day.

The young detective moaned wantonly into her mouth, letting the noise get caught if it meant another moment in this heaven. Darcy was too good at this, and thank God above that she'd happened to walk in when she did. John wasn't holding his hips tight, so Sherlock took advantage, grinding himself into the table in time with John's thrusts. It wasn't what he wanted, not exactly, but it would do. He felt Darcy's lips still against his for a short breath before he felt her hand slink under his tummy.

"Do it," John murmured, losing his breath as he rammed into Sherlock as hard as he could. The man in the middle was seeing stars as Darcy wrapped her small hand around his cock, stroking it with precise movements.

_God, exactly how did she know how to twist her wrist just at that angle, with just that amount of pressure? _ It was uncanny, how she noticed things. Almost better than Sherlock did at times, and certainly better than John. Sherlock threw the thought away, focusing on the moment for another second before he felt that tight heat in his belly, the clench before the ultimate release.

He was shooting his come on the table, working it into the wood grain with the movement of John behind him, rutting his belly along the table. Darcy was still at his mouth, tracing his upper lip with a precise amount of pressure on her tongue, catching the corners of his mouth, making it water.

"Jesus," he groaned, feeling John finally still behind him, a soft grunt and a fisting of flesh being his only sign of having come. He was clenching onto Sherlock's arse cheeks like they held the answer to life itself. Maybe they did, he mused, a soft grin painting its way across his face.

John pulled out, stooping to unfasten the ankle tethers. Darcy stood as well, coming round back to where John had been sitting. She scooped up one of the dildos and washed it off in the sink.

"Gonna borrow this for a bit," she sighed, winking at them and kissing Sherlock again before sashaying down the hallway. The men looked after her, dumbfounded. Well, Sherlock was. John looked pleased with himself.

"Shower?" he asked, swatting Sherlock, who by the way was still lying across the table top.

"Ugh," he groaned. "My legs hurt. You broke me," he whined, burying his face in his arm. John laughed and turned him over, making the younger man sit on the edge of the wood.

"Did you have fun with that?" John hugged Sherlock to his chest, ruffling his curls. The detective snorted and pushed him away.

"The experiment went quite well thank you. I should like to see if a similar result happens again at a later time, if you wish it," Sherlock said pompously, sliding off the table and going to the bathroom. John watched him go, laughing. He put their used toys in the sink and followed Sherlock in, wondering what the insane personality had in mind for a second go.

* * *

**revieeewwwwwwwwssssss! my life's blood! check my profile for new stories, i have a few timestamps from this coming out and at least 1 new story up! muahahahahah! ** ** ps, tell me if you want to see a threesome IN the story, or in a time stamp? i love writing threesomes...as some of you may have seen. tell me please! **


	7. A Little Bit of Everything

**howdy followers! one more chapter to go! be forewarned of rimming and just general sexy sex going on here, but no til the third break in the chapter, so skip it if you no likey. also be forewarned of disaster and pain and grisly harm in the next chapter. the only one after that will be an epilogue, so the main plot will be taken care of. **

**enjoy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 7:**

Two days later, the trio made a trip to Angelo's for dinner, not having any pressing casework to delve into. Sherlock and Darcy were entertaining themselves by having a deduce-off, much to John's ire and secret enjoyment.

"I don't believe that you have a _real_ eidetic memory, Darcy," John complained. Sherlock looked between them, nibbling a tiny piece off the end of a breadstick, eyes settling on the girl. Only she caught Sherlock's wink. A crooked smile brightened her face.

"John, you never cease to ask the stupid questions," she giggled, closing her eyes and pressing her fingertips to each temple, chin resting on her thumbs.

"Describe it to me," Sherlock asked, leaning forward across the plastic-topped table. She smirked, maintaining her present stature. "What does your mind palace look like?"

"Don't have one. Mine, if you could call it that— which you wouldn't— is more like a shop where you'd rent movies, filled to the ceiling with reels of old film. My memories aren't in picture form, like so many who call eidetic memories a 'photographic memory.' It doesn't work like that. I film the time that I find useful or interesting, and edit or crop it how it needs to be done and then store it. When I need to recall it's like hooking the tape back through the projector and hitting play. But my memory is more flawless on the environment of the thing, such as faces, positioning, structure, you know, the way things _look_ than actual perfection of what was said and done."

"Do you do random deletes?" he asked after a while of silence. John was still skeptical, but that question made him look back over at them.

She smirked, finally opening her eyes but still not really focusing on either one of them. Her eyes were focused on something else, flickering as if actually watching a film play behind her eyes. _Remarkable_. "That girl coming in for an interview at the surgery yesterday was nice, wasn't she?" Darcy aimed at John, smiling. Both Sherlock and John looked outraged, but for very different reasons. The younger man half-turned his body to glare at John, silently demanding an answer.

"I…what?" the doctor asked, spluttering.

"The girl? We passed a young nurse it looked like on the walk in. You said hello, even called her by name, but avoided her hand shake, pretending not to see it. Didn't hire her, did you?" Sherlock's mouth was hanging open ever so slightly. He _must_ learn to do this! Recall perfect stop-motion memory and deduce from it! Amazing!

"Erm, no we didn't actually. Wow," he commented, sinking back into the cushion of his seat. She really did have a good memory. Eidetic? Still doubtful.

"Ah, you still don't believe me. Hmm," she frowned, reaching into her bag for a slip of note paper and a pen. She started drawing as the men watched. Well, Sherlock was watching people on the street now, having much to think about. He needed to get Mycroft off their tails about her. He'd been calling lately.

Just then his phone buzzed.

Mycroft. Hang up.

John's phone buzzed. Sherlock smacked it out of his hand, effectively hanging up and nearly getting hit in the jaw for his trouble. He looked back at the girl; she was handing her picture to John.

It was a perfect drawing of John, what he was wearing down to the leather shoes and the plaid shirt, mobile up to his ear, on the day that Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's. The look of terror and pain was blatant on the rough sketch, the image's jaw half-slack with disbelief. His throat constricted.

She'd been there.

a few minutes of silence later their food was delivered by the large Italian, laughing heartily and clapping "Yeah, I was there," Darcy admitted through bites of lasagna. "Who do you think your brother is, some foolhardy idiot who cares nothing for you? He knew that you'd run to Moriarty, and that it wouldn't end prettily. My gun was trained on the sniper that was aimed at you, on top of the hospital. I watched the whole thing. After that I was asked to keep an eye out, to see if you had managed to escape. Mycroft didn't want to believe it more than anyone else did. When I found you, like I said, I kept quiet. I knew that you knew what you were doing." John was staring at her, half mad at the both of them. "Really, John would you have believed me, if I'd just shown up and said, 'Oh, hi, I work for Mycroft and I found Sherlock, he's alive and well two streets down?' No. you'd have blown me off and continued your sobbing like every other idiot one of you. So don't you bloody look at me like that."

Sherlock snorted into his food, or rather the plate he was picking off of. It was actually John's plate. The doctor sat back, full, letting Sherlock do as he pleased. It was good to see him eating for a change.

The detective had been oddly quiet all day, and John noticed that he was a bit slow-moving. Not typical at all for the usually light-footed and sharp-tongued younger man. He laid down their tip and the three piled into a cab to head back to Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock was coughing, hard. Deep, wracking coughs that shook his thin frame. John was kneeling on the outside of the shower-bath, trying to force-feed the obnoxious man cough medicine. He had it slapped out of his hand for the third time before he gave up, throwing his hands in the air and grumbling about "see if I care," as he stomped out of their upstairs bathroom.

The detective sat in the hot water miserably, hating the feel of the vapor-rub that John had managed to smear across his chest. It tingled under the spray. He coughed a few more times before sitting there silently listening to the other two people outside the door.

John suspected some strain of flu, probably the regular old airborne kind. Sherlock wanted to draw blood and look under the microscope at it, but he wasn't allowed to leave the shower until the water ran cold, according to 'his doctor.' He rolled his eyes and leaned heavily against the back wall of the bath. He turned his head to the door as footsteps approached.

It was Darcy, brandishing the medicine. He scowled and reached up, shutting the curtain on her figure.

"Now, Sherlock don't be fresh," she chided, gently re-opening the curtain just wide enough for them to see each other and sitting down on the tile next to him outside the rim of the tub. "You need to take this, or you'll get worse. Come on, now." He pulled a face, biting his lips shut and ignoring her. Instead of getting mad she leaned in closer. "The faster you're over being sick, the faster you can get back to your naughty games with the doctor," she whispered. Sherlock scowled, hating how right she was. He reached out and took the medicine cup, knocking it back and pulling a terrible face. Darcy smiled, taking back the cup and standing to wash it out in the sink before sitting on the cool tile again.

A few minutes of comfortable silence later she caught his attention by handing a lit cigarette through the gap in the curtain. He smirked and took it, inhaling deeply and handing it back. He coughed again, not as deeply as before.

"That is not tobacco," he wheezed, laughing at her faux-shocked look. She took it back, opening the tiny window in the bathroom to let the smoke out. It was a vain attempt to avoid a confrontation with John, he knew. She took another drag and passed it back, nestling back into her spot on the floor.

"So what is your plan about Mycroft?" she asked, resting her head back against the wall. He sighed, mimicking her.

"I plan on telling him to piss off when he comes snooping. Which will probably be tomorrow," he grimaced, rubbing at the oil-based crud on his chest. She huffed out a laugh, offering the joint again. He took it. Anything to feel better, he mused, inhaling deeply. "You won't need to hide or anything. But if he asks for the drive, I suggest you hand it over. I don't fancy having to clean your blood up off the floor, and he won't hesitate if he does think that you have it." Her hand drifted toward her necklace for a second before she hesitated, changing the direction and landed her palm on her knee, drawing them into her chest.

So the drive was on her necklace? He squinted, looking at the tiny piece of metal. There was no way a whole thumb drive was hiding on that thing. It was a small crucifix, dangling on its side with a thin chain on the top and bottom of the main beam, holding it taught, that was it. She felt him looking and shifted, finishing the joint before he could stick his hand out for it again. He grumbled, but John came in a minute after that, asking how he was doing.

The good doctor pretended not to notice the faint aroma of smoke in the room as he slammed the window shut on the freezing outside weather. He saw the ground out butt on the tile next to Darcy, which reassured him. Slightly.

"Did you take it?" he asked, sitting on the toilet lid. Sherlock nodded, a new round of coughs rendering him unable to speak.

"Ugh," he groaned, reaching forward to shut off the shower spray. It had gone cold, and his chest was now freezing from the vapor-rub.

"Alright. Come on you bugger," John said, leaning down to help Sherlock to stand in the tub, and then clamber his long legs out of it. Darcy handed him a towel and slipped out, letting John take the lead again. He was grateful for it, leading Sherlock out and into their bedroom to hopefully sleep it off. He'd mixed a few crushed sleeping pills into the cough medicine, hoping that the combined effects would take hold in Sherlock's body, accustomed to drugs as it was, and would allow the younger man a few good hours of deep sleep. He so rarely gained that privilege, unless John fucked him well enough to sap his overclocked energy drive. _Which_ by the way he was not pleased at all to be missing out on, thank you very much. Maybe tomorrow, he chided himself, letting Sherlock fall onto the bed haphazardly. The younger man didn't seem to mind, already curling up into a rough fetal position all naked and freezing. John threw the duvet over him and went to turn the light out, returning shortly to cuddle up under the blankets with his partner.

"Mmmm," Sherlock turned, nuzzling into John's throat as he began to drift off. John smiled, winding his arms around Sherlock's trunk, making space for their legs to intertwine so he could get closer to the other man. "We should," he broke off, yawning impressively, "we should go out on a nice date when I'm back to feeling better," Sherlock said, more demanding it in a pathetic tone. The good doctor smiled against his forehead, pressing a kiss there as he answered.

"Sure, Sherlock. That sounds lovely."

The younger man hummed in response, letting the sleeping meds take hold as he was dragged under for a solid fourteen hours.

* * *

John woke up late; he could feel in his bones that it was much later than he usually got up. He'd fallen asleep with Sherlock around 20:30, apparently so comfortable that he slept the whole time that Sherlock did. When he felt the older man stir, the detective rolled over to face him, smiling gently.

"Feel better?" John questioned, stretching his back and arms before settling them around his boyfriend. Sherlock nodded, pressing a chaste kiss to the good doctor's lips. "That's good," John mused. He let his eyes slide closed again, relishing the fact that it was Sunday and he didn't have to worry about the surgery. Just as that thought hit him, the realization came through that Sherlock was no longer in his arms. He watched the bump in the duvet travel south, feeling the ghosting breath over his belly and thighs before Sherlock licked a tentative and very silent stripe up the underside of John's slowly awakening cock. He shifted, rolling fully onto his back to give his partner better access.

Sherlock did love sucking a cock, he mused. Half the time it seemed that he did it just because he wanted to, not to start anything necessarily. But this was different. He was letting John take the reins, being so quiet and submissive. John fisted his hand in Sherlock's curls, pulling hard to get his point across. Sherlock opened up and took John down to the root, sucking back hard, letting his teeth graze the shaft ever so lightly before letting up and swirling his tongue over the head. John gasped. _What a way to be woken up,_ he mused. He lifted the duvet enough to get a good look at his boyfriend, laid out on his stomach between John's legs, not even using his hands, just bobbing up and down in a lazy manner. John sighed and threw the duvet off him, needing to watch more then he needed to stay warm. They'd be warm enough soon.

Insistently, John tugged up at Sherlock as he felt himself get hard enough, demanding that the taller man get up here face-to-face with him. Sherlock let off his cock with a pop and crawled up, still not saying a word. John pulled him down for a deep kiss, rolling the two so that he was laying on top, pressing every inch that he could reach of their bodies together.

Today felt like a slow day, he thought.

Instead of taking his lover in his usual, brutal manner, John made up his mind to go slow. There was nothing on today, and Darcy was likely downstairs cleaning something out that Sherlock hid, or managing to dust to unreachable places for Mrs. Hudson in her half of the flat. Why hurry?

He surprised Sherlock by leaving his mouth, nibbling soft kisses down the man's throat and over his collar bone, hands skimming the soft skin at his sides, not pressing but tickling over his ribs and flat stomach. John gently bit the small curve of muscle at his partner's pectoral, making the younger man arch up slightly. Sherlock's breathing was loud, but he was doing his best to lay there pliantly, drinking in the sensations. He perked up a bit more as John laved a flat tongue over each nipple, blowing gently over the wet skin to raise them into hard nubs. For the moment John ignored their cocks, despite how Sherlock was trying to shimmy his hips so that they rubbed together. The good doctor simply slid further down, licking and nipping the soft skin at Sherlock's tummy all the way down until he settled between his legs on his belly.

Sherlock held his breath, wondering where John was going to go. Cock or arse? He released all his muscles, going completely slack as John hitched his hips up a bit for better access. Arse it was. He brought his hands up and grabbed a handful of hair on either side of his own head, letting his elbows drop to the pillows in ecstasy as John pressed a firm tongue to his hole, working the muscle loose without pressing in quite yet.

A few minutes in, a finger worked its way between his cheeks and Sherlock gasped as it sank into him, John's lips sucking at the puckered rim as it stretched around the small intrusion. He was trying to be quiet, perfectly silent for John. The picture of submission. John worked another finger in, curling them just right as he pulled out. The drag over Sherlock's prostate was almost painful, he needed it so badly. He arched up, driving the back of John's hand into the mattress and the fingers deeper into him, losing the connection of John's perfect mouth as he did so.

"So—sorry" he mouthed, not quite able to make the sound. He'd lost his voice in the swirl of emotions and physical feelings washing over his body. His cock ached for wanting attention, but he ignored it. John would get there when he wanted to.

As if hearing the thought, John sat back on his heels, withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth across Sherlock's belly as he crawled back up, planting a wet kiss on the head of the taller man's cock. Sherlock trembled, not quite meting John's eye as his legs were pulled apart and hooked around the doctor's hips. John sank in to the hilt without much resistance or preamble, though he did go very slowly. He watched diligently as Sherlock opened his mouth in a silent shout, eyes squeezed shut as the pang of being stretched burned through his muscles. It passed in the next few breaths, and he lay there, completely slack for John as the older man began to thrust, ducking down for a swift but thorough kiss.

His thrusts were slow, deliberate, just like his rimming had been. Every motion had a direct consequence, and right now that purpose was to destroy Sherlock's ability to think and walk. He was doing a damn good job; the younger man only moved his hands all over John's back and sides, not quite sure where to put them as quiet whimpers and gasps escaped his bitten-red lips. John pulled back a bit, looking down on Sherlock as he thrust a bit harder, dragging his hips up to hit the man's prostate brutally.

Sherlock's back arched up like a bow, nails scraping into John's back as a desperate wail was released. John gave up on gentle, getting his knees up under him for leverage. He held the skinny man's hips tightly, sinking his thumbs in the pockets made by the prominent bones, sure to leave bruises. Sherlock loved them; he often caught the younger man pressing his own fingers to those bruises days later just to feel the dull ache. He dragged out at an upward angle, making Sherlock gasp his name before he hit home as hard as he could, wrapping a firm fist around the man's cock at the same time. Before he could pull back out Sherlock was coming, eyes rolled back in his head and mouth hanging open slightly. John smiled, driving deep and keeping his thrusts small and centered until he was coming too, driving as deep as he could go to bury his seed. It would burn for hours and keep Sherlock slightly uncomfortable for the rest of the day.

John collapsed against Sherlock's chest, head bobbing as the man's breathing went from heaving to normal before he slid out and rolled to his side, taking Sherlock with him.

After several minutes, the detective propped his head up on his elbow, looking down at John with those amazing eyes. He trailed a finger down the older man's chest, biting his lip.

"What?" John asked, smiling slightly. He caught Sherlock's tickling fingers.

"Do you want to get ready and go on that date tonight?" he asked, looking back at the doc through plush lashes, eyes burning. John laughed, looking away. He snuggled his back into the broad chest, feeling those lanky arms wrap around him and smiled.

"That would be amazing. But tonight, sir, you do the honors," he added, wiggling his arse into Sherlock's crotch. He felt a smile against his hair and laughed, getting out of the bed and dragging Sherlock with him to their bathroom. Cleaning up would require a shower, beginning with slipping fingers back into Sherlock to work his semen back out.

Sherlock got up, wincing slightly as he wobbled into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. He let John start the water and leaned his head back for a kiss as the water heated. John turned on the spray and they stepped in.

Sherlock immediately got under the spray and wetted his hair, pouting at John's laugh at what he called his 'drowned poodle look' before assuming the usual position of hands on the wall, one leg on the side of the tub, one leg planted on the bottom as he let John work the come back out of his sore arse.

"Gah," he winced, clenching unintentionally as John opened him back up. "This date better be worth this," he fussed, forcing his body to relax. John bit his shoulder gently.

"It will be, love," he sighed.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered the barely-mentioned sentiment. John smiled against his shoulder-blade.

"I love you, too."

* * *

**just in case some of you havent read Living in His Shadow, and therefore dont know, i changed my name because i am so completely in love with a new character i wrote out, and i wanted to have her name to advertise and also because i'm just so taken by her. i hope you all like her; i'll be releasing a non-johnlock in the next few months, but i hope that you all find George to be a perfect match for our favorite consulting detective!**


	8. Don't Touch What's Mine

**A/N: a;right guys, here's the climax. just one more chapter and an epilogue after this, which i promise to be smutty and then endearing, and maybe a bit more smutty 0:) leave me a message! anything you want to see as the last smut scene?**

**ps, no smut in this chapter, all plot! sorries! that's what you get for no reviews last (and quite smut-ridden) chapter! naughty kids!**

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As John laughed, running up to the front door of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock felt a heavy sense of foreboding. What was this? He paused in the doorway, drinking in the physical information. John was already up in the bedroom, stripping. He could hear the clatter of a belt buckle against the cold wood floor. The detective ignored him for the moment, scanning the flat thoroughly. Surely if she had left, Darcy would have left behind a note. Unless...he sniffed, catching the stray scent of men's deodorant that belonged to neither of the flat mates. Sherlock jumped into action, scanning the parlor.

John's red chair was facing backward, into the kitchen. Their sign for her being gone. Where? Sherlock paced the sitting room for a moment before his phone pinged. Thinking it would be her, he looked at the multimedia message. A picture of the Thames; north shore near the art district.

The last clue she left was an open drawer in her room. The thumb drive was gone. John needed to get his gun; they had to go, now.

"John!" he called. "Get your gun, Darcy's been kidnapped!" thumping followed, loudly, as John snatched his pistol and re-dressed, thundering down the stairs.

"Where is she?" he gasped, checking the safety on his gun and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

"Tate Modern shore side. Someone has her," he sighed, walking out and hailing cab.

"How do you know?" John asked.

"She left clues. Her gun is still here, meaning she was taken off guard. Mycroft is the only person that she would ever miss coming. He's the only person good enough to catch her unawares."

"What does he want?"

"The thumb drive"

They arrived at the bridge a few minutes later, John paying the cabbie and looking around. Sherlock was already gone, searching. The doctor huffed and ran to catch up.

They both froze, eyes locked on the slender body dangling from the second arm of a small crane, about ten feet over the Thames. She was bound by her wrists, heavy blocks of some kind wrapped around her ankles, weighing her down. A single man stood on the banks, a high-powered sniper rifle in hand. They approached with caution, John could feel the burn of his own gun against his skin.

"Far enough," a thick accent pervaded the silence and rushing water. They stopped, silent as the grave. Sherlock's eyes were still locked on Darcy, not thirty feet away but completely unreachable. For the first time since his supposed suicide, he felt completely trapped; helpless. He didn't even have the thumb drive, and that was the only thing that could get Darcy off that trap alive.

"Kneel, palms on the ground, fingers flat out. Move them and I shoot her. I don't care which body part I hit either." Sherlock peered up from the ground, grimacing. "Try me," the man growled, lighting a cigarette. "You give me the drive, I let her drop into Thames. You refuse, I shoot a limb each time until she drops of her own accord and drowns, unable to swim." the glow of his cigarette on those black eyes sent shivers down John's spine. This was a test of will; he was going to lose. Leave it to Sherlock, he thought.

The detective cleared his throat. "I don't have it; she does," he commented, looking at the limp body struggling over the cold river. She was trying to haul her body up, favoring one arm terribly. Her right. Damn.

The man grumbled, turning to face Darcy, firing a shot without looking at the scope. He hit her thigh, hard. Directly in the femoral artery, John noted with a wince. She had maybe twenty minutes left. Sherlock could see the blood spatter from the impact from here. A low scream permeated the thick air, clogging Sherlock's throat. Darcy was biting through her bottom lip trying to muffle her cries, but they were still heard by the men on the shore line.

"You tell me before she bleeds out, now." Darcy struggled worse now, trying to pull her body and the weights up the rope with only one useable arm. She was failing miserably. Sherlock panicked. He had to get her out! How?

"Please, I am telling the truth! I looked for it in the flat before we left, just like you did! I could not find it; only she could have it."

"We looked. We were _thorough_," he growled, voice dropping to a menacing octave as he mentioned being thorough. Sherlock blanched, eyes flicking back to his helpless friend.

What could he do?

John glanced sideways at him, waiting for the next step. Sherlock looked back, letting John see the panic there. It worked. John came up with something.

"What if it's gone? What if she ditched it while you were bringing her here? Or she dropped it in the river?" he asked, trying to buy time for his partner.

The stranger glared at him. "We searched her before we strung her up," he said, levelling the gun at Darcy again. She visibly flinched, trying to sway her body on the ropes to avoid the shot. But he was too good a shot. He hit her square in the shoulder of her good arm, another nerve-buckling scream echoing out over the water. Now totally helpless, Darcy hung there, a steady stream of blood drizzling down her leg and into the dark water below.

"It's Moran," she called, her voice a barely tangible waver above the water and the rush of traffic in the city. Sherlock moved suddenly, tackling the stranger to the ground and wrenching the gun from the older man's hand. John had to give it to him, Sherlock was faster than most, quick on his feet and a damn good tactician. He predicted every blow and avoided it, smashing the stranger in the nose a good few times before the man gave in, laying there limp on the ground under the younger detective.

"John, go get her," Sherlock growled, throwing the glance over his shoulder that haunted John's dreams. Those pale eyes darkened, narrowed into slits, hair wild and voice a sinister rumble of impending death. He ran, going as fast as his legs could possibly take him up to the cab of the crane. Darcy was hanging there uselessly, barely breathing from the blood loss at this point. John took out his gun, aiming at the ropes that held the weights-which he now saw were about ten cinder blocks bound together. He shot the ropes, immediately lessening the strain on her destroyed arms.

Darcy cried out as the loss jostled her, whimpering as quietly as she could manage as John moved the arm and brought her body as gently as possible to the ground. A scuffle at the edge of the water caught his attention again, and he almost let her hit the ground hard.

Sherlock was fighting with a henchman now, having lost his straddling stance over the older man and letting the fiend escape. With a sharp crack, he broke the man's neck deftly, killing him instantly. A cry echoed through the air, calling three armed men out from hiding places onto John and Darcy, and Sherlock at the edge of the water.

Now came the real game.

John picked his gun back up, putting his body over Darcy as she lay limp on the ground, having tried to get herself upright and failing. He shot one of the men square in the head, causing the other two to slow down their advance, trying to scramble for a plan. He tugged Darcy the rest of the way over closer to him, creating a defensive stance.

John stood up, prepared to take out the other two men when he was knocked to his knees by a swipe at his feet. He looked over to see Darcy holding out her hand for his gun. She hobbled to her knee, kneeling halfway and shot both of the men rapidly, hanging herself over the edge next second and taking out two of the men on the banks with Sherlock just as easily. She was using her right hand, but John could see a clear break in her metacarpals and the phalanges in her three middle fingers. She was saving them through the pain.

The last man standing still had a gun. It was the _stranger_. He kicked, hitting Sherlock square in the jaw as he moved to run up to the bridge. The motion knocked the detective out cold, landing on the ground hard. Darcy managed to get up to her bad leg, knees shaking from the pain, but she breathed through it and booked it down to Sherlock. The stranger was there, gun trained on the assassin, John bringing up the rear.

"Give it to me, little girl, or I shoot and take it." Darcy shook her head, less willing now than ever to cut a deal. He aimed the gun down on Sherlock, now waking groggily from his knock-out.

"Sherlock," she called, standing perfectly still on her one good leg, wavering. The youngest man dragged himself to his knees, staring at her.

"Hands stay on the ground, like before," the thug growled, locking back his slide. Sherlock obeyed wordlessly.

John looked between the two geniuses, immediately recognizing the blankness of their faces. An infamous silent conversation, it was, then. Sherlock's eyes widened, terrified, and he shook his head minutely. John could barely steal a glance sideways at Darcy before she said:

"He's going to do it, regardless." The way Darcy whispered the simple sentence made John's skin crawl. What was going to happen? In the next blink, Darcy lifted her hand to her throat, tore her necklace off, and threw it to Sherlock, still on his knees in the mud. Sherlock took his right hand off the ground, and everything went to hell.

The thug shot, hitting Darcy directly in the chest. John's eyes were glued to the wound. A direct hit to her heart, surely. Darcy dropped, completely deadweight to the ground instantly, not moving. Sherlock had grabbed the necklace with one hand and knocked the beastly man to the ground with his other, snatching the gun and breaking the man's wrist in the next move. He aimed and shot wordlessly, taking out both of the man's kneecaps and hitting him in the stomach with another.

John stood, dumbfounded as Darcy froze on the ground. He saw the blossom of red against the back of her shirt, and the placement made his heart stutter.

The bullet had to have hit her heart, and Sherlock had been the catalyst. He would never forgive himself.

"Sherlock!" he screamed, falling to his knees with Darcy clutched to his front. She was limp, but still miraculously breathing. If you could call it that. The sound was more like a wet gurgle as blood filled her collapsed lung, spewing into her left bronchial tube and out her mouth, striving for escape.

"Darcy?" he called out, his voice barely audible. Sherlock's eyes were huge, filled with disbelief and despair as his genius filed through the best course of action.

Let her die? No, of course not. Hospital? Mental map...Bart's is the closest. Hail a cab? Ambulance? ….Cab.

"John, get a cab."

"Sherlock—"

"Get. A. Cab." John blinked at his wavering tone and got up, running for the main road as Sherlock scooped the tiny girl up, cradling her against his chest as blood poured from her mouth and the wound. The semi-exit wound on her shoulder blade was bleeding as well, even though the bullet hadn't gone all the way through. The detective walked as quickly as he could, holding her close and avoiding jarring motions. She was silent, gritting her teeth against the obvious pain. She should be unconscious by now. A normal person would be after four bullet wounds and several broken bones. She shouldn't even be breathing!

John managed to flag down a cab and helped Sherlock drag Darcy into it. The man driving began to protest but swallowed his argument as the barrel of the desert eagle was aimed in his face. "St. Bart's hospital, please," John mentioned, realizing that they had yet to state their destination. He was sitting at Sherlock's left, Darcy's back to him. The doctor steeled his nerves, reaching out and tugging at the collar of her shirt.

He worked it down, with Sherlock's careful help (once he saw what John was doing—originally he tried to slide the girl away from his partner) to see the damage, at least a cursory glance. The bullet was still there; he could feel the bump under her skin from the shattered and splintered scapula where it was lodged. Given that she was still alive, it must have hit at just the perfect angle that it went through her bronchial tube and nicked her pulmonary artery, judging from the amount of blood. She was clinging to life, one lung collapsed, the other working overtime to pump oxygen through her destroyed limbs, body demanding the repair work from her white cells and plasma.

John silently calculated her odds, something Sherlock had probably already done to perfection. It was grim.

The cab jerked to a stop as it pulled into the courtyard of St Bart's. Sherlock opened the door, swinging Darcy out and standing on exhausted legs. He ignored the pain, all but running into the building, a thick line of red drizzling down to the pavement behind him. John followed quickly, yelling at the staff to round them up and helping his silent partner slide their friend onto an empty gurney. A nurse ran to them with an IV rig, demanding to know what had happened.

Sherlock couldn't speak; he was upset. John read it in the way he clung to Darcy's hand as they wheeled her down to imaging to get scans and x-rays. He decided to speak up.

"She's been shot. We got caught in a firefight." He explained numbly. "Once in her right thigh and each arm. Her right hand is broken and the shot through her chest nicked her pulmonary artery, it seems."

"Alright, we'll get her in imaging and then ICU immediately," she assured, a whole team of nurses and two doctors running into the small room. John pried Sherlock's hand off hers and ushered him out the door, into a private room where they said they'd bring her after imaging and a possible surgery.

Only after they sat down did John realize that part of the blood following Sherlock was from a hole in his trousers. He'd been shot in the leg. The younger man sat there, blank faced and terse as John talked, fussing over his leg and patrolling him into the bathroom. John disappeared for a second, barely noted by Sherlock in his daze. During that time he pulled out his mobile.

He dialed Mycroft. It rang twice before he picked up. Sherlock looked down, hearing the first breath. Everything was moving in slow motion. Extremely slow.

"Sherlock? What is it, brother, I'm in a meeting with the Lords that's gone into overtime," he heard Mycroft's droll voice echo across the radio waves. He couldn't open his mouth; his breath was short and rapid. All of a sudden everything was moving at three times the normal speed, fluttering around him. Something had broken; something that hadn't been an issue in _years_.

"Myc," he croaked, feeling the heat of tears breaking the water line. _No,_ he thought at himself, cursing the emotions warring in his head. He could hear Mycroft's spine creak as he sat bolt upright shot out of whatever chair he was in.

"Trace this call," he bellowed at some assistant. "And get a car. Sherlock, are you alright?" he asked, sounding like an overbearing parent now. Sherlock tried to smile but his face wasn't working.

"Y..." he couldn't even speak. God, this was a bad attack... John came back in the room, voicing his worry.

"Let me talk to John," his brother demanded. Sherlock could see Mycroft pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He handed the phone over.

"Yeah?" John asked, sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder. He had a rag and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in his hand, and a small, clear bottle of some kind of liquid. Sherlock sat perfectly still, ignoring the searing pain in his leg as John tugged his trousers off to get at the bullet wound. Once they were off, John handed his partner the tiny bottle. _Drink,_ he mouthed. Sherlock obeyed, gagging over the nasty taste. His trousers were deposited into a bloody heap beside the toilet and John sat back on his heels, waiting for a second before pouring the rubbing alcohol over the wound. Sherlock gritted in pain but otherwise remained unfazed as John muttered into the phone to the elder Holmes.

"He seems to be in a kind of daze. Been shot in the leg, I'm working to dig the round out now and he isn't even wincing," the doctor looked at his patient again, disbelief clouding his eyes as he watched Sherlock's face and dug his finger into the hold of his thigh. An eye twitch was all he got. This was going to be bad, he mused.

"He's having an attack. I'll be right up. I've got something for him." Mycroft hung up before John could ask what it was. Sherlock's eyebrow tweaked at the echoed words but once again faded back into his hyperactive breathing and unfocused eyes. John frowned, finger finally touching on the round in his boyfriend's thigh and managing to work it out. He set the bullet aside as he picked up the needle and thread, moving now to stop the bleeding and stitch shut the opening.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway, moving to sit on the closed toilet seat and watch John finish his work. After the hole was stitched up tightly and Sherlock had been rinsed off of any remaining blood from either him or Darcy, John stood him up and helped him into some scrub pants that Molly had passed through the cracked door, a blush hard on her cheeks. She'd disappeared just as quickly, to Sherlock's silent relief. He couldn't deal with her right now. The only reason that Mycroft was tolerated was because he had a fix for Sherlock in his pocket. A means to an end, always.

Sherlock pretended to ignore his brother, knowing that asking for the needle full of drugs was the last thing he needed to do to get his hands on it. Mycroft liked forcing his opinion on people, not being asked for it. So he sat in his chair and stared out the window, hands shaking, eyes unfocused, until he heard the older brother sigh and come around his chair, dipping a hand into his pocket. John tracked their movements but made no move to stop either of them. He was curious. Well, soon he'd be furious. Sherlock licked his lips and waited again. He could be patient if he needed to be.

Mycroft withdrew his hand, depositing a hypodermic needle into his brother's palm after tugging the cap off. Sherlock fingered the vial for a second, biting his lower lip. Did he want to go down this road again?

Just then, three nurses and a surgeon came rolling into the room with Darcy strung up and covered in wires and bandages. She was breathing, but a traich had been stuffed down her throat. Sherlock felt his blood boil again as he shoved the needle into his arm, pushing down the plunger.

He vaguely remembered John watching carefully as the doctors hooked her machines up to the plugs in the walls and looked over her chart, humming and sighing to himself a few times before looking her over and sitting in the chair opposite Sherlock in the room. Mycroft had evidently taken the needle back, scuttling back across the room to get out of the way. Sherlock didn't care. He stared at Darcy's half-living form and blinked back the tears. The bloody thumb drive was still in his pocket. He pulled it out, fingering the delicate cross that she'd so ingeniously twisted the wires from the drive into. All the information was perfectly intact, he'd caught her poring over the info in the sitting room on John's laptop late one night when she thought they were in bed.

"Myc," he whispered, catching both the men's attention at once. His voice was hoarse, eyes blown wide from the cocaine, he knew it. He felt John's disdain and anger immediately, dark blue eyes flashing between the brothers. Sherlock kept his gaze on the silver necklace. He held it out. "This is the thumb drive. You'll have to twist it back into form but it still works. I've seen her check it a few times." Mycroft came closer slowly and took it, looking over the device before letting his eyes flick back to his brother.

"Just like that?" he asked. There was no way in hell.

"You'll leave her alone, of course. She's mine now." The younger Holmes breathed, letting his pale eyes shift back to the prone form on the gurney. Mycroft nodded, grimacing but agreeing to leave her alone, provided that she remain at Baker Street. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge him as he strode out, tapping away at his mobile. Sherlock got out his phone and called Lestrade.

"There's a body or two down on the north banks, near the Tate Modern," he supplied, hanging up before further questions were asked. _At Bart's if further info needed as Mycroft,_ he texted, hitting send and pushing back into the uncomfortable chair. His eyes roamed the room, unable to focus, but at least his mind was relaxed now.

"Sherlock, you need to explain," John said, tired of biting his tongue. The detective took a deep breath.

"Let's get this over with, then."

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**leave me a review kiddos! xoxoxox!**


	9. High Lovin'

**a/n:**** so here's some porn and fluff and cute high sherlock before the last chapter just because. sorry i've been so long, school has been murder; it's my last semester so everything is kind of converging on me in my last month and a half of class before post grad school starts. kill me now. enjoy, and review for me at the end! one more chapter to go!**

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**CHAPTER 9:**

Sherlock explained it; he explained it all. How the drug helped calm him, how cocaine is one of the main ingredients in Ritalin, the prescription drug most commonly used to calm down children with ADD and such behavioral disorders. The cocaine he took, be it an extraordinarily strong dose, worked to help his overworking nerves and synapses calm down. Ritalin wouldn't do it for him; it wasn't strong enough. He needed the pure source. He'd been having a hard time of it lately; he'd completely cut out anything that could be considered substance abuse when he'd started dating—aka sleeping with—John because he knew that the doctor would be able to tell. Darcy. Seeing her crumpled, shot, destroyed, and near death had pushed him over the edge. If it had been John, he explained, he wouldn't have gone to Mycroft for a pure shot. He would have gone to the streets he used to roam.

Didn't make John want to throttle his boyfriend any less, though.

John pressed a finger and thumb into his eyes, nearly falling asleep in the wee hours of the foggy London morning as he watched over their broken friend and his almost comatose-high flat mate while they awaited the verdict. A doctor Shultz came in shortly after Sherlock had dozed off, telling him that Darcy was being kept under for the next two days, if any progress was made that they would be called immediately. John nodded and went to wake Sherlock, anticipating a fit. Instead, Sherlock cowed to John's suggestion that they go home and sleep it off; they were both injured, Sherlock having caught the worst bit with being shot in the thigh, but they both could use a good night's sleep after the fire fight.

The good doctor carefully ushered Sherlock up the stairs to their flat, the lanky man stumbling a bit on his path and seeming like he genuinely didn't know what they were doing there, but at least he was nice. Too nice, in fact.

John catalogued this for later; sober Sherlock is a dick. High Sherlock is the cutest damn sweetie you'd ever meet. Once they got into the flat, John tried removing a few of Sherlock's winter layers, stripping off his Belstaff and his shoes, chasing an ankle down for the second sock after one had been kicked off. There were giggles and smiles just emanating from the younger man, and soon John took to the contagion as well, laying down in the middle of their sitting room on the small carpet like it was the most normal thing in the world, staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock turned onto his side, scooting close to the doctor and curling around him. John sat there, letting himself be held for a while before he felt the younger man shift again, stretching his neck out to pepper his doctor with a series of kisses all over his neck and face.

"Sherlock," John chided, putting a hand to the younger man's face to halt his advances. He pouted, sniffling at the palm on his nose before he hid his face in John's neck again.

Suddenly he sprung up, on his feet, making a dash for the kitchen. "I know, John, I know!" he muttered, banging around, looking for something. John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and remaining on the floor.

"I'm too tired to experiment, Sherlock, let's just have a nap?" he said hopefully to the shadow dancing around the room in the early morning light.

"Make John happy…" that's all the doctor caught of the rumbling baritone as a few more banging noises reverberated the wall between the kitchen and the sitting room. He picked his head up off the floor as a pair of long pale legs straddled him.

"Um…Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" he adjusted himself and set something on the floor next to his knee.

"Where did your trousers go?"

"Floor," he trailed off, pulling John into a sitting position and handed him a steaming mug. The older man quirked an eyebrow.

"Tea," Sherlock explained. No eye roll. Interesting, apparently he lost his sarcasm gene when he was high, too. Reminder: ask Lestrade about that later… John ducked his head and sipped at the tea. The other eyebrow raised up to meet its partner.

"I remembered milk," Sherlock quivered with excitement on his lap, waiting for a compliment. John paused. He could go two ways with this: give in and have sleepy adorable sex with his righteously high lover, or make him suffer for a while then fuck him to pieces. John's mind settled for the latter, because it made his anger flesh out more healthily; but his body was screaming for the first option.

"It's good, Sherlock. Now," he said, setting down the mug. "You have made me quite angry, getting shot at then getting yourself all high as can be. What do we do in that case?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and low. Sherlock screwed up his face a bit, pouting.

"I can-" he said brightening a bit, starting to slide down John's body toward his burgeoning erection. John stilled him.

"You can go fetch your cuffs and sit on the bed and wait," John commanded. "Get your collar as well," his eyes locked on the bandage taped tightly around Sherlock's milky thigh as he walked away, curly head hung low but buzzing with excitement. The doctor sighed, rubbing his eyes and getting up to put the mug in the kitchen. He'd have to be careful, no telling how high a cocaine-riddled Sherlock's threshold for pain was. Plus that gunshot had gotten nasty; he needed to think up a position that would leave it alone or at least not stress it badly. He sighed and made his way into the bedroom to find an already cuffed consulting detective kneeling next to the bed with his "collar" aka John's dog tags hanging off the D-ring of a slim leather strap sitting on the mattress next to him. He was quivering a bit, licking his lips. Anticipatory. Waiting on John to put the tags around his neck and get the game started.

"I don't know, Sherlock. I'm pretty tired," he sighed, faking a huge yawn. Apparently in his addled state, Sherlock wasn't quite as sharp on his uptake. He pouted, crossing his arms defiantly back at the good doctor. John laughed, picking up the collar and crawling onto the bed. John sat in the center, crossing his legs. He patted the space next to him and the younger man crawled up, all lanky limbs and purple silk. John fingered the hem of the shirt absently, letting Sherlock claim his mouth in a plundering kiss that pressed him down into the bed in a matter of seconds.

"Do you-" Sherlock started. John pressed a finger to his lips. He had a sudden and much better idea.

"Get the lube," he whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to the younger man's confused lips as he worked off the cuffs on his wrists. Sherlock reached over and dug in the bedside table for the small bottle. "Now, since you have so much energy and I'm spent from staying up all night with your _girlfriend_," he sneered, "I'm gonna lay here and take it and you get to do all the work. You can ride me or you can fuck me." Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as he pondered the idea.

In the end Sherlock lubed up his fingers, taking the rare chance to top. He knew that John would never offer when he didn't want it to happen, so he might as well please John as much as possible. He reached down as John kicked his last shred of clothing to the floor, pressing light fingers to the puckered entrance and teasing lightly.

Sherlock hovered over John, one hand supporting his weight while the other pressed tentative fingers at the doctor's hole. He sank in one finger to the knuckle, catching the small gasp with his lips as he ducked down for a kiss. The detective curled and flexed the digit until he felt John buck back on his hand a bit before sinking in another to scissor him open. John in his own right was working just a bit, fondling Sherlock's bollocks and nipping his chest everywhere he could reach in this position. When he'd sucked a substantial sized bruise on the curve of Sherlock's shoulder where it met his neck, Sherlock withdrew three fingers, slicking himself up instead. He paused, looking to John for permission. John suppressed a huge yawn (barely) and nodded, letting his thighs settle on either side of the pale, slim waist.

Sherlock pulled back, grabbing John's wrist and rolling him onto his belly. He resisted for a second, but complied with a moan as Sherlock sank his teeth into the soft flesh of his neck once he was settled.

"Oh," he groaned, writhing a bit as Sherlock sank in slowly, letting John feel every inch of his slender length. He bottomed out after a few tentative thrusts and sat back on John's thighs, trailing light fingertips all over the smaller man's back.

"Sherlock…_move_!" John fussed, wriggling his arse a bit in an attempt to get some friction. The younger man drew almost all the way out before ramming back in hard, wrenching a gasp from his doctor.

Sherlock reached down, fisting his long fingers in John's cropped hair, wrenching his head back at a jarring angle as he thrust in hard, making John rut into the duvet with a strangled moan. The taller man sat forward, driving in as deep as possible before pressing his mouth to John's throat, biting it hard and smiling against the hot skin as he felt John clench around him. He came undone, spilling into the fabric with Sherlock's name on his lips as his lover came deep in his arse, pumping all the way through his orgasm until John was limp and tender beneath him.

Sherlock withdrew and flopped down on the mattress beside his boyfriend, relaxing into each other's arms as they recaptured their breath. A few minutes later, just as they were beginning to doze off, the call came through that Darcy was awake at the hospital, and would be discharged the next day.

"I want to go see her," Sherlock whined, wriggling out of John's death grip to pull some trousers on and run to catch a cab. John sat up on the bed, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head as the younger man tore through the flat, managing to find one shoe. "John, _JOHN_! I can't find my other shoe! Where is it?"

"Are you still high?" John asked, kicking the shoe out of the bedroom into the hall as he padded over to the bathroom. Sherlock didn't answer him; all he received was a hurried kiss before the man was running out of the flat and slamming the street door behind him.


End file.
